


Coin-Op

by Sherlox



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fez Hats, Jalapenos, Laundromats, M/M, Non-Supernatural, Rated M for Maybe we'll see when we get there, some Twilight bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlox/pseuds/Sherlox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean could write a book on some of the personalities that ritualistically air their dirty laundry at the local laundromats on Wednesday mornings while he darned his little brother's socks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quarter for Your Thoughts?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Destiel fic and also it's unbeta'd. I've done some fanart for it too which will be added on later when I've finished coloring it and when it won't be spoilerific to post :D

“Kneel before Todd!” is all Dean hears before enthusiastic explosions _WBSHHT!! KRRSHHH!!_ come tumbling out from someone or something shorter just behind the row of washing machines in front of him. Small hands poke up to puppeteer a green T-Rex, Batman, and a blue Power Ranger on the top of the machine. Amused and distracted, Dean watches as Batman and the Power Ranger clash plasticine heads with the dinosaur with a distant kind of smirk curling the edges of his lips.  
  
“RAWR!! Agh!” Blue took a hit and Dean finds it acceptable because if anyone is going to take down a dinosaur it would be the god damned Batman and not some lone pansy in a spandex suit. Sam had loved, really _really_ loved, the Power Rangers growing up. In fact, in a shoe box in the bottom of the closet was a photo of him dressed as the red one when he was ten. It was unconscionably dorky on Sam's part but, hell, Dean got something in his eye (he was a man damnit!) every time he felt like digging through that box and saw it.  
  
With a particularly enthusiastic hit from Batman's flat feet to the green dino's side, the melodramatic sounds of slow death and overkill signal the nearing of the end for the creature as it topples over the top of the washer and lands on the floor. Batman attends to the Blue Ranger with words he couldn't decipher in their hushed excitement before a kid no older and eight or nine comes barreling around the corner to reclaim the fallen giant. Prepubescent blonde hair, the kind Sammy used to have before aliens switched him out for the Jolly Green friggin Giant one night, cover this kid's head in a mess of lazy waves.  
  
His name is Todd. He's here almost every Wednesday afternoon that Dean is and so he had grown accustomed to the epic battle scenes that took place in the laundromat. Todd's mother always sat in the row of seats near the door facing away from the shop window. She looks up occasionally to make sure Todd isn't getting to out of hand before returning to either a Cosmo or a book which he was willing to bet showcased a shirtless Fabio look-a-like on the cover with a scantily dressed damsel in distress on the front cover; aka soft-core chic lit.  
  
They weren't the only regulars – there is Chuck, who either drank too much coffee or was knocking back amphetamines like tic tacs. (Dean also held a sneaking suspicion that his Big Gulp that never left his hand is full of vodka but he didn't have proof.) The guy comes wrapped in his moth eaten bathrobe, dingy sweats, and legit slippers muttering to no one with an overused black garbage bag trailing behind him. He apparently lives over on of the shops on the same block and therefore apparently doesn't see the need to get fancy or shower. His MO is to pace diligently back and forth, his eyes glued on the super-size front-load washer, (which is _always_ the third one from the end. In the event it was being used, he will stand, or twitch to be more accurate, until the washer became unoccupied.) and stare at his clothes jumping around in the soapy water. A couple of times when Dean had used one of the bigger washers, he had gotten close enough to hear some of what Chuck was mumbling to himself. It was something about gnomes or faeries that made Dean's eyebrows pop up as he turned slowly away mouthing _Ooooook_ to himself before making the decision that saving fifty cents just wasn't worth... _that_.  
  
Next on the list was Anna, a willowy little red-head (seriously, fire engine red) with alabaster skin and big wide doe eyes. She only shows up once or twice a month, but it's kinda hard to miss her. Anna folded clothing meticulously. Like, look, if there was an Olympic sport for folding? Anna would win. Hands friggin down. No contest. If Dean was packing up in her presence he would swear he could feel her unblinking eyes boring holes into his shoulder as he lackadaisically folded and tossed his clothes rather ungracefully into his bag. But to be fair, Anna even folded her _underwear_ into neat little triangles. (Which really? Like, _really?_ What the hell?) And hell if that wasn't the weirdest part because she brought her _dirty_ laundry folded up just the same. On occasion, if they're standing close enough, she'll reach over and help Dean with his folding. He learns what he can, making small commentary here or there that earns a blush or a small smile. Dean figures she's either wildly OCD or just doesn't have a life. He really hopes it's the former because she is a pretty girl beyond all the nazi folding.  
  
There's Andy. Oh _Andy_. This guy, man. He has a van and not just _any_ van. There is a friggin POLAR BEAR and VIKING CHICK like, at the _same_ time, on it. It seems like the premise for a subpar Scandinavian porno or something. He doesn't know what it is this laundromat with guys wearing their bathrobes and whether or not this is a nationwide trend he never heard about, like that time Sam tried to explain whatever the hell and tumbler was (he could hear the exasperated, “GOD, Dean” chased by that bitch face Sammy loved _so_ much in his head.) Clearly, Andy is a follower but at least his is in one piece and looked in moderately good shape. He comes in habitually with a Star Trek OS coffee mug and manages to charm not just newspapers from the other random people in the joint but extra dryer sheets and detergent. In fact, Dean's not sure he's ever seen Andy even put so much as a single quarter into the machines for his clothes now that he thinks about it. Hell, one time Andy just walked up to him and not two minutes later was walking away with the sandwich Dean brought for lunch while he waited. To this day he has no idea how that happened but he makes sure his jacket covers his stuff when Andy is there just in case he sees and decides to work more of that “These are not the droids you are looking for” snake charmer hoodoo mind fuck business.  
  
A sudden loud piercing squeal reminds him somewhat painfully of one person he hadn't remembered. _Becky._ He had mentioned one time ( _ONE_. GOD. DAMN. TIME.) if she read those _Twilight_ books when she first showed up loading her wash at a machine near his. While he's out of the loop for the most part with general trends of society he'd heard some stories about the fans for the series and though he didn't understand the story really (piecing what he could from occasionally when the fat back tv in the corner over the soda machine was working and there would be movie trailers) and he didn't get the draw. He had thought it would have been funny to poke a little fun since the girl had come in with it printed all over her shirt, bag, bracelet, iPhone cover, laptop cover, headband, and _of course_ the book.  
  
In retrospect, he should have quelled his inner smart ass because... _because_ that day, that horrible day right after he opened his stupid mouth and those let stupid words come out because he's a dumbass with a capital FML? Becky's eyes lit the fuck up at the mere _prospect_ of being able to share her wild obsession and over the following forty-five minutes he said nothing but learned everything he never needed to know about the most ridiculously contrived love rhombus in history. How even though the writer didn't say that the the werewolf guy and the vampire guy were fighting over some daft chick because they couldn't let their manly fronts down long enough to get vulnerable and mushy and admit they secretly wanted to put their trains in the other guy's tunnel which prompted another yet dumb comment from him. (Which, really, since he didn't learn the first time he deserved the second helping.) He made the fatal error of mentioning that maybe she was _reading_ into it, with a small snort at his own pun, before she pierced him with her affronted laser vision and proceeded to tell him that she is just one of MILLIONS who validate her on some place called Fanfiction.net. She may have mentioned that tumbler thing again but he couldn't remember.  
  
And now don't get him wrong, Dean gets his nerd on. He's a fan of Vonnegut and is a sucker for anything Palahniuk writes. Hell, even _he_ can't watch Star Trek without thinking how obviously Spock and Kirk (which he now knows are the Adam and Steve of “ _slash_ ”) are totally doing it regardless of how many alien women Kirk makes moves on. While he can't deny her this infatuation or interpretation, she could definitely stand to learn a lesson or forty about appropriate amounts of discretion in public, what a halfway decent plot line is and good literature looks like, and maybe learn to bring it down a couple of decibels. Since That Day, he has gotten Becky to mend a few of her ways with American Psycho, The Departed, Full Metal Jacket, and Gladiator (which prompted her endless wailing about the forbidden love between Emperor and Gladiator). She wouldn't go near Godzilla, John Wayne, or Eastwood _yet_ – she's a work in progress.  
  
And Rufus? Rufus is awesome in the way those stereotypical black barbers are in those Barbershop movies by Ice Cube. While he's always brown bagging it – he's not obnoxious. At least not to Dean. Rufus is just outspoken and carries his thoughts and opinions which is awesome to hear because outside of Sammy no one seems to give a damn much passed their own two feet much less anything else. Rufus also tells really _really_ racist jokes (“Hey Dean, why black people so fast? … 'Cause the slow ones in jail!”) and shares swigs from his bottle of Johnny Walker _Blue._ For all of Rufus's southern-type of simplicity, there's is just something about him. He let slip once, after polishing off a decent part of a bottle, that he won some fuckton of money through a law suit at his old job but “ain't no way on God's green earth they pay me to sit on my black ass for the rest of my life that's for damn sure,” so Rufus got his beat up Ford pick up in good working order, got his bloodhound a new leather collar, and got a decent surveillance system on his place. Dean loves that Rufus is so unchanged by money (hell, he still comes to a laundromat “cause no way that China man gonna put that starch and shit in my shirts. Gotta do your own damn wash.”) though he's betting he does crack into that money to keep up the company of Johnny and his Four Horsemen. He imagines that when Rufus dies an old man, everyone will learn he's a multimillionaire who just spent his life doing the same damn thing he did every day. Dean doesn't pretend that he'd have that kind of control, but he thinks of all the people he's come across he envies Rufus the most.  
  
Dean frowns as he thinks about it. He's not greedy, he really isn't. He's a simplistic hedonist. He wants a shined up '67 Impala, a nice house (maybe two stories), a big bed with those memory foam pillows like the samples in front of the store in the mall, a full bathtub (for manly scalding hot _dunking_ not girly bubbly _soaks_ like Sam, _girl)_ , maybe a dog, and for Sam to want for nothing.  
  
But as it is, his '67 barely runs, his apartment is a single with the dining area converted into a second sleeping area, a tiny lime-scaled shower stall, and the occasional cockroach or six. Dean's not bitter, or at least he tries not to be. What they have is little but it's a step above nothing and Dean _knows_ what nothing looks like. It's why he's picking up 70+ hours a week working four or five jobs throughout the week – hell if it isn't explicitly illegal and pays well enough, he'll do it. He's not bothered by the work, granted he'd like to work less and sleep more but he'd take hard labor over a desk job worrying about his girly figure _any_ day of the week. It's just depressing because it's not enough. Every penny he's got can only get Sam through maybe a single semester at Stanford, Sam's choice school.  
  
Well, Sam _tries_ to tell him it's more like a dream than anything and that the local college is just as well and Dean hates it every time Sammy says it because it's a lie and they both know it. They've sacrificed too much and Dean won't see Sammy do it to with this too. At one point he was almost ready to let Sammy go somewhere else until he found the brochures outlining their unparalleled law program and the wonders of the campus. Sam had stashed it under his bed _past_ his skin mags because Stanford was his biggest wet dream. Dean had found it when he was getting rid of Sam's old box spring which was broken in several places. (Lucky for him someone down the street threw one out in better condition.) Dean broke down when he saw it. Fucking sliding down the wall to the floor, hiccuping, shaking, crying his heart out. He hadn't ever cried like that, not when Dad passed, _never.  
  
_ “TAKE THAT!” Todd shouts and some miscellaneous G.I. Joe goes flying through the air. It's enough to take Dean out of his reverie and finish patching up a rip in his jeans. Sam had been getting bigger and bigger everyday, he's a senior in high school and is a couple inches taller than Dean now, but can still get away with wearing Dean-size pants. The plan is to share for as long as possible before hitting up the thrift store. During the summer, Dean lets Sam take a job at some local burger joint so he can bring in cash for himself, the stickler being that it would have to last him the whole year because he wouldn't let Sammy work during the school year. Of course, the sasquatch fights him over it but Dean denies him. Sam's only job is to do his absolute best in school and apply for every scholarship he could get his hands on (and make dinner.) So he spends all his spare time writing essays and joining as many extracurriculars as possible so he's more attractive to schools (Chess Club, Physics Club, Math Club, Track, LGBT Alliance, which admittedly led to a talk about the birds and the bees and the bees and the... _bees_ , and Yearbook.) Dean did however let him volunteer at the library on Saturdays because he said it would look good on his transcript and Dean relented under those god damned puppy eyes. So Sam with all his AP classes and ridiculous intelligence make Dean excessively proud.  
  
He likes these moments where can take a step back from everything and just relax in the hum of machines busy at work and people watch. Wednesday mornings into late afternoons are the only free time he is afforded with his schedule. And every Wednesday he's at the same coin-op laundromat a couple of blocks from his apartment doing that week's wash and repairing that week's damage. Despite never having a mother to learn from, Dean quickly became adept at sewing stitches (although in the start there was plenty of cursing and finger pricking), patching tears, and cutting coupons. And while he didn't necessarily talk to Todd, Chuck, Anna, Andy, Becky, or Rufus every week or about anything important, they still formed this weird little collection of people from all different walks of life doing something necessary to all.  
  
He was sure there was a Hallmark life lesson in there somewhere.  
  
His Wednesdays are pretty predictable so that's why, as he's feeding the machine by the front door to get more dryer sheets, the sound of a stalling faded grey 88-89ish Toyota Tercel pulling into the parking lot beyond the window attracts Dean's attention. At first, it's simply because even from this distance he can tell the car is in the _worst_ shape and he seriously didn't think people drove those anymore. He almost looks away until the most disheveled person climbs out, an over large tan trench coat flapping wildly in the wind before getting caught in the closing driver's side door and Dean can't help but stifle a laugh. It is clearly not this guy's day as he fights the wind, his car door, and a large basket out of his backseat. It's not like new people (to Dean anyways) never show up, just that Wednesday early afternoons usually don't fit in with a great many people's schedule.  
  
Dean tries not to stare as the flustered man, who he can tell observationally is a little shorter than him probably but not by a whole hell of a lot. He picked up a bad habit of comparing his height to everyone else's because Sammy, though he won't admit it, makes him a little insecure. So far, Rufus is the only regular who's taller than him. Damn him. The guy's hair looks like it's been knockin boots with a tornado which makes Dean smirk as he unloads the dryer.  And like that, Dean is off in his own world again, wondering how Anna does it while he folds warm worn t-shirts. He's almost got a good routine going until a frustrated grunt coming from the direction of the coin machine draws him from _sleeves in, sides in, fold in half_ , _press flat._  
  
Trenchcoat is repeatedly trying to feed his five dollar bill to the machine with no luck. Knowing a lost cause when he sees it, Dean abandons the Zeppelin shirt he was working on. He's quiet on his approach and sees the ornery machine spit out the bill yet again.  
  
“Let me try,” is all the warning Dean gives before plucking the bill from Trenchcoat's bewildered hands and _damn_ if he didn't revamp his decision on Anna having the market on _eyes_ after seeing Trench's wide blue ones. He wastes no time before running the bill back and forth along the edge of the machine to straighten out any kinks. Those eyes stare unblinking as Dean slowly feeds it into the machine for the Moment Of Truth.  
  
“Hot damn, I'm good,” Dean preens as the machine takes the offering and spits out some dead metal Washingtons in exchange. Trenchcoat stares at the quarters for a long moment saying nothing before turning his eyes back to Dean.  
  
Dean wants to make a joke about how he knows he's twelve individual kinds of awesome _please don't grovel humble citizen as he is merely doing his duty to spread said awesome_ but the words die in his throat cause damn those eyes are like lasers. Trench is looking at him like he's a difficult puzzle that will make sense if he squints slightly and turns his head thirty degrees to the left. And it's a little more unnerving than it probably would have been normally since Dean had stepped in pretty close to yank the bill from the other man's hand and hadn't moved back. Clearing his throat, Dean cuts the awkward silence.  
  
“I'm Dean.”  
  
And of course, this does nothing but make Trench narrow his eyes a little and seriously? Does he have something on his face because now it's really getting weird. Do only sociopaths and kleptomaniacs go to laundromats? What does that make Dean? Is he some kind of bat shit crazy that comes with not owning certain appliances? Will he too one day walk around in a bathrobe or an oversized trenchcoat and just _stare_ people to death or – Dean misses it.  
  
“Come again?”  
  
Trench looks unimpressed.  
  
“Castiel.”  
  
Dean blinks. Castiel? Is that a name? He can safely say he's never even heard of it... _ever._ So of course the first thing Dean thinks about (since he is a man) is whether or not that mouthful has ever proven a problem in bed. Not that he's thinking about this guy like that or anything. He'd overheard some girl once complaining about it at the bar once (which if you're going to complain about that there are other more important issues going on) so now Dean has this little habit of imagining some random person moaning random people's names simply because he finds it hilarious. _Oh Jedidiah!_ Dean smirks. _“_ That's a--”  
  
“It's biblical.” _Castiel_ cuts in, clearly used to explaining it by now.  
  
Well, that would _certainly_ explain why he'd never heard it. He almost says as much but he remembers his mistake with Becky and doesn't want to invite the opinion of a book fan, fictional or religious. “Well, _Castiel,_ it's nice to meet you,”  he manages with a smile before turning so no more crazy rubs off on him and heads back to his laundry.  
  
Dean would _like_ to say he didn't watch Castiel out of the corner of his eye while the disheveled man methodically sorted his whites from his colors but he looked so out of place, disjointed, and awkward that it would be considered publicly indecent if he passed up this prime opportunity to find amusement in the behavior of strangers. It's what his Wednesdays are all about after all.  
  
-~-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
Wednesday also stands for Long As Hell Shift At Roadhouse but Dean doesn't want to piss off the Powers-That-Probably-Aren't and keeps his bitching to a minimum because what he's got going at the Roadhouse is an awesome thing. It's gets a good crowd even on a Wednesday night and Dean is excessively proficient at playing the openly flirty and interesting bartender. Sometimes he'll walk home with in excess of $200 which goes straight into his savings account for Sam. And while Dean doesn't advertise being a charity case, his boss Ellen knows (which basically means so do Jo, Ash, Kali, and Henricksen) so any returned food or mistakes in ordering he typically takes home which is awesome because he's rarely home enough to make sure there's always something for Sam to eat. He knows his brother prefers to eat rabbit food but fries and burgers are food too. Speaking of...  
  
“Dean? You home?” Sam hollers, the clunky sound of his heavy feet echoing through apartment and it's thin walls. That boy is like clockwork.  
  
“Kitchen!” Dean's sitting on the clean part of the kitchen counter getting ready to wolf down a shitty burrito fresh from the microwave. Or at least that's the general plan until he takes his first bite and it turns out it's less a beef burrito and more like molten friggin lava. “Ow—FFF—Hah! HAHT!” he spits to save his precious taste buds.  
  
Sam's big ass shadow appears in the door way before he does with his shit eating grin. “How long did you put that on for? Did you even let it cool?” he asks with ill-contained amusement slinging his bookbag from his shoulder to the counter.  
  
Dean, who's tongue is still hanging out like a dog's, glares. “Fuh yoo.” Sasquatch's eyes crinkle with amusement before digging through the sparse fridge for a bottle of soda. Deeming the burrito now safe to eat, he actually manages a few bites before another loud sound of indignation escapes him. “And there's _still_ and ice chunk in the center? How long do I have to friggin cook this turd?” But Dean's tired and the burrito is too much work so he tosses it out. He'll eat later on shift.  
  
“I'm pickin' up Jo's shift for the early dinner crowd so I'm leavin' in a bit and I'll prob'ly end up crashing there since I have inventory to do after closing so you're on your own to feed that black hole you call a stomach in the morning 'cause I'm just gonna head to Bobby's from there,” he smirks, grabbing the carton of milk from the fridge and takes a long swig.  
  
“Ugh _dude_. Can't you use a glass?” Which of course earns Sam inappropriate pleased sounds from his brother informing him of how much he _really_ enjoys drinking milk from the carton. He shakes it off. “Besides, didn't you pick up for Jo last night too? Dean, you have to sleep sometime! Tell her to fuck off.”  
  
Dean will sleep when Sammy graduates from Stockton and so he shrugs. “I _will_ be sleeping. S'why I'm gonna crash in the break room. For optimal sleeping efficiency or whatever.” And to be fair, that couch is _really_ comfortable. Dean's excuse for a bed has a couple busted springs that dig into his back. “You're just pissy 'cause you won't have anyone to tower over while I'm gone.”  
  
“Dean just – just _stop_ this ok? This is ridiculous!” Sam slams down his soda. “You work five nights a week at the Roadhouse, four days a week at Bobby's, you're a freaking valet and you clean _fish_ and _God_ knows whatever else on the weekends! Look, I'll survive without going to Stanfor–“  
  
Dean's eyes are rolling in his head as he pinches his nose. He really doesn't want to do this  right now. “We are not having this discussion, Sammy.”  
  
“The hell we aren't Dean! At least let me get a job! I can handle it and school and you'll be able to--”  
  
“For the last god damn time Sam, no is no! Of the two of us, you're the one with the future. You make it to Stanford, graduate, and you'll be set alright?” He glares at Sam like he's the taller of the two. “You're gonna become a big shot lawyer, you're gonna get a house with a white picket fence, get a pretty girl, pop out a few kids, and make something of yourself, alright?”  
  
Sam huffs, nostrils flare in that telling way when he's trying to dial down in anger in order to continue calmly and civilly. “And what about _you_ , Dean?”  
  
He scoffs. “What _about_ me? I'll be the live-in Uncle. Your kids are gonna need a man around the house since they're gonna have _two_ chicks for parents. So you gonna wear the dress when you–“ and he doesn't get to finish because Sam is chasing him through the house. This usually ends with one holding the other in a head lock doling out a large helping of brotherly noogies.

In the back of his mind, Dean congratulates himself on a job well done defusing another bomb.


	2. Permanent Press

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added a bit to the end of Chapter 1 because I totally left off some -_-;  
> Also, I know nothing about the legal system so I'll be BSing the shit out of it.

His blood must be 99.3% pure black coffee right now he's sure of it. Dean's on his eighth cup and and is deeply massaging his temples like it'll help the blood flow to his brain. He doubts that even if Megan Fox, Olivia Wilde, and Mila Kunis appeared and started making out with one another that all he'd be able to manage is to do is pick his head and mutter a “Huh” before dropping it back down. He has another hour and he can close. It's 12:15am and all he can think of is that at least it isn't 12:14am.  
  
“Ya gonna make it bro?”  
  
He doesn't even need to look up to know it's Ash, the mulleted yet masterful head chef at Roadhouse. Although, you wouldn't think so with the way he dresses in ratty ass jeans (Dean crappiest pair look better) and a sleeveless t-shirt. Ellen tried forcing him into something a bit more appropriate but it was a lost cause. You can take Ash outta Hickville but you can't take the Hickville outta Ash. He is inseparable from that hair too but it's ok because he's actually a pretty cool guy. He helps Sam out with his calculus (+1,000,000 A-OK in Dean's book points) and makes Dean look better when he's standing in the general vicinity.  
  
“As soon as I get some sleep, I will be fucking _dandy_ ,” Dean murmurs, finally lifting his head up to survey the last customers in the joint. There's two guys mulling quietly over three fingers of scotch at the other end of the bar, a group of four digging into their dinner in the corner, a chick-flick moment going on between two girls at a booth in the back, and some guys shooting their last game of pool to his left.  
  
“Boss told me to do inventory tonight. She heard through Kali that you've been pickin up Jo's shifts,” Dean groans. There goes two hours of pay. Ellen worked mornings during the week and either left Dean or her daughter Jo to close. She didn't like anyone taking on too many shifts. She may only be Jo's mother, but everyone who works for her concedes that the hidden clause in their work agreement is a new surrogate mother. This doesn't mean that Ellen walks around with pretty pieces of colorful adhesive plastic to cover your boo boos with. _Hell_ no. Ellen is rough and tough and gets what she wants but she's _fair_ and make sure everyone does their part and keeps them from doing anything stupid. Well, generally.  
  
Ellen's the closest thing Dean's got to a mother and initially when he started working here six years ago as a waiter it had rubbed raw the way she would look at him and _know_ the way they always say mothers _know_ about their kids and when something's wrong. Dean will never actually be able to make a concrete comparison because his own mother died when he was seven. The house fire consumed pretty much every picture and every video of his mother so his memory is pretty barren now. Ellen never pried. She never said anything about it, but she would linger whenever they were alone with every fiber of her body language reading _I'm here if you wanna talk, boy._ And it had been two months into his employment at the Roadhouse that he caved. Aside from that moment he found the Stanford brochure under Sammy's bed, it was the worst breakdown he had ever had.  
  
He saw Ellen cry, albiet silently, for the first and only time that night and he still remembers the way she said nothing as she fiercely grabbed hold of him and crushed him to her. He had spilled about his father, his mother, Sammy, school, the lawyers, the State, _everything_. By that point, Dean already dropped out of high school to work the Roadhouse and Bobby's to make rent. Ellen nodded stoically, never once interrupting him until everything that had built up in him tumbled out leaving him breathlessly hollow and alone. Afterwards, Ellen poured each of them a drink despite his being underage.  
  
The next day, she handed him a folder outlining the G.E.D. program and told him she'd give him a raise and _maybe_ a bonus if he got it. And if anything spoke to Dean in those days, it  to this day still, it was an extra penny. After that, Dean would bring Sam to the Roadhouse two or three times a week so he wasn't home alone. Ellen didn't mind and in fact encouraged it. Dean liked to think it was because Ellen always wanted a boy and an orphaned Sam was a perfect outlet for her unrealized dreams. Dean didn't really care what reason it was because all he cared about was that Sammy wasn't home alone, had an actual table to do his homework at, got doted on by all the pretty waitresses, and kept fed for free by Ash. And after all they had been through, Dean was most keen on just being able to look up, even in the middle of a busy dinner shift, to catch his kid brother's eyes at his designated table near the kitchens. He got teary when he thought of all that Ellen had done and continues to do for him. Amidst all the shit and misfortune that continuously fell around them in what was now called 'The Winchester Curse', there are still things that give him hope and help him wake up in the morning.  
  
So while Ellen appreciates his situation, she also knows (because Sammy came in once or twice a week still and god damn if she didn't baby the shit out of him) that he works several other jobs and as such never lets him take on too many shifts at a time. She knows if Dean could work twenty-four hours straight he would in a heartbeat. As it is, he gets three or four hours sleep a night tops; all his worries and the skeletons in his closet keep him from getting anything more.  
  
Dean sighs, feeling guilt build at the relief he didn't have to do inventory. The days just keep piling on and he never gets ahead. “Sounds good. I'm gonna crash on the couch tonight if that's ok?” Dean usually only sleeps there when he's the one closing because he doesn't want pity from anyone.  
  
But tonight?  
  
He is _far_ too tired to give a shit.  
  
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~  
  
Dean thinks about Castiel a few times the next day. As he pulls his Impala into Bobby's Bodyshop the next morning, there's already a beat up grey Toyota on the rack. For split second he thinks it might belong to a certain man in a tan trenchcoat but with a second look he can see it's in _far_ better shape than the one he's thinking of. He smiles despite himself, thinking of that crazy mop of black hair and the concentration in those big ol' blue eyes.  
  
He pulls himself out the car with a groan. He managed four hours of sleep on that couch, which is all realistically he should have expected, but Dean's yawning and it feels like the end of the day and not the beginning _and_ he still has to go back to the Roadhouse tonight. God, if he had stayed to do inventory last night... Dean probably wouldn't be standing right now.  
  
Lisa, the petite brunette behind the counter Bobby just hired last month as a replacement receptionist for Ruby who went on maternity leave, looks up with a bright smile and white teeth and too much fucking enthusiasm. Don't get him wrong, she's a nice girl. She's got a kid that sometimes makes Dean wonder if it's his but he'd remember hooking up with a yoga instructor. Hell, to be honest, he'd remember hooking up at all. Back when Dean only worked for Bobby and Ellen (because he had to be home with Sam at _some_ point, he was _twelve_ and Dean had to swing work and going to most of Sam's I'm-Some-Super-Genious award ceremonies) he'd done his share of one night stands but nothing more. He didn't want a relationship or anything to take away from Sam or his work. It just wasn't in the cards. Nowadays, Dean considers himself lucky if he gets his rocks off with something other than his hand every three months or so. As it is, he's been occupationally celibate for nearly nine months. He just has no time, no energy, and no drive. It's pathetic but he can't afford to buy anybody a drink, waste his gas driving, or risk waking up somewhere strange where an alarm clock might not go off and he might miss a shift.  
  
Bobby's grunts in his direction as walks to his locker for his coveralls. Bobby isn't a morning person and Dean prefers that to Lisa's blinding smile. Although, to be fair, Bobby isn't an anytime of day person and is at his best after a weekend of hunting or cracking open a cold beer. Back in the day, before the fire, Bobby and John would go hunting and fishing regularly. Dean vaguely remembers John bringing back big fish for Mary to cook.  
  
But then the fire happened and John never _really_ left the fire even though he moved them away from Lawrence. And when he died, Bobby had shown up there to help pick up the pieces. He kept the state from splitting up Sam and Dean but Bobby knew nothing about raising kids and Sam and Dean didn't really know Bobby. They awkwardly spent a few months together trying to make the best of Bobby's broken down home. But he couldn't support two kids, himself, his shop, and a mortgage. The best he could do was get enough parts to get the Impala running. Because of Bobby's location, Sam was outside the reach of a school bus and even on a bike it wasn't manageable and Dean couldn't drive him and pick him up everyday so Bobby helped them find an apartment closer to the school district. He knew the landlord and got the boys a steep discount. Bobby also gave Dean a job at the shop and they had dinner together on the two nights he had off during the week. While he doesn't have much to give, Bobby is always looking out for them. When either of them are sick, Bobby always has a close friend who is a dentist or a pediatrician. Damn, Bobby has probably called in all of his favors in the past seven years just for them.  
  
Later in the afternoon, a cherry red BMW rolls up just as Dean is wiping grease off his brow. He stifles the snort that threatens to rise when pumps, legs, and designer sun glasses slip their way out of the driver's side seat. It looks like a scene from a movie up until she steps away from behind the door and those mile-long legs disappear into a a trenchcoat. A tan one. And the fact that Dean _immediately_ looks back up at her face to make sure it's not Castiel (even though he can tell the coat is significantly smaller and much more fitted) has him rolling with laughter. Because now, in his head, is a cracked up picture of Castiel having the same movie effect: door to his Toyota Tercel opens, awkward legs stem down into quaking pumps and as Castiel stumbles out. He's wearing just his giant trenchcoat with that look of unfathomable confusion crossing his face.  
  
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
When Dean wakes up the following Wednesday, he can barely believe it's already been seven days. The tail ends of the weekend have him running from odd job to odd job in one big blur of caffeinated craziness. He stares at the cracked watermarked ceiling feeling like his eyes are slipping back into his brain under the weight of his eyelids. His whole body is numb and heavy and just _begging_ to be left alone. But he can't because he's on his last pair of clean boxers and knows there's officially nothing left but a quart of milk in the fridge. Dean doesn't have to worry much about Sam because he gets free lunch at the cafeteria and his little brother has told him a few times about Gertie the Lunch Lady who's in love with him and slips him all the extra food he could want.  
  
Dean rations $100 the first and third weeks of the month for food, and $50 the second and fourth for anything they run short on in between which means Dean will be _scouring_ the coupon sections of every available paper at the laundromat (a few of the people already know and pile those parts of the newspaper on the table in the back where Dean usually sits) to stretch every penny of that money to the max. He tries to do his best by Sammy because he's health conscious, but healthy is not equal to cheap and especially not a long shelf life. Gigantor sometimes has to settle down with vegetable instant ramen but he never _really_ complains because he knows they can't afford more so Sam also tries to help by finding online coupons or cheap alternatives and writing them down for Dean.  
  
So he _has_ to get out of bed and be productive. He rolls off his creaky bed and viciously rubs away the sleep in his eyes. He's glad for Wednesdays because by the time he wakes up Sam is already at school and Dean doesn't have to pretend that he's not falling apart at the seams or that given the chance he wouldn't sleep for a week straight. Because he is and he would but he keeps it together. Everyday he wakes up and puts his game face on because this is all going to be worth it someday. Autopilot serves him well and before he knows it he's locking door behind him with two heavy bags of laundry over his shoulder.  
  
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
Remember that Winchester Curse? Well...  
  
“Damnit!”   
  
_BANG!  
  
“_Gimme. The. God. Damned. _Pretzels!”_ Dean hits the side of the snack machine again. He's been fighting it for the past five minutes. His prize, a bag of salted sourdoughs, is bent forward like a friggin tease pressing it's packaging against the glass. He got the same $2 bag of pretzels _every week._ So of course on the day where Dean has _nothing_ else to eat, it gets stuck.He presses his head against the glass to try to calm his growing headache. He's just gonna have to hold out for another few hours. He _refuses_ to waste money on over priced shitty food at the cafe down the block--  
  
“Dean.”  
  
He turns and A, when did Castiel get here, and B, how did he get so god damn close without making a sound _._ He visibly sputters in confusion and Castiel takes it on himself to continue.  
  
“I have noticed your food item appears to be stuck,” Castiel manages in a gravely flat tone, once again maintaining _super_ intense eye contact. And really? Who _talks_ like that? Maybe it was the trenchcoat talking.  
  
“Um,” Dean starts eloquently, blinking several times before he looking back to the vending machine. “Yeah, it's just the way my luck is. No big, I'll eat later at home.”  
  
Castiel cocks his head to the side again and Dean resists the urge to mirror him or reach out tilt it back. And then the man is digging through one of his giant side pockets and for a second Dean is a little nervous because this guy isn't the definition of normal so who _knows_ what he carries around in his trench coat until he pulls out a plastic bag from from this awesome sub shop down the block. Dean tries to keep his mouth from watering but it's been a month since he had one and they are _amazing_.  
  
“As I have yet to repay you the kindness you visited upon me last week, if you so desire you may have this sandwich. Or I can procure something else if it is not to your liking.” Dude is dead serious!  
  
Dean coughs, “Look, _Castiel_ right?” A nod. “I didn't do anything special last week, you'd have figured it out on your own eventually. You don't need to give me your food.”  
  
“But you are without and I must insist on returning your kindness. You may not have found it 'special' but is more than anyone else had done,” he reasons and Dean is pretty sure the guy hasn't blinked even _once_ since this whole conversation started.  
  
“I appreciate it, I really do but it's really too much. Than--"  
  
“Then we can split it,” Castiel informs it, leaving him no option. However his face knots up and he stares at the sandwich in his hand like it had gravely disappointed him somehow. “I have forgotten that I had jalapenos put on this sandwich which I realize is not a widely appreciated sandwich topping. Do you enjoy jalapenos?”  
  
Dean almost, _almost_ , made the sign of the Cross because god _damn_ he loved jalapenos and if he believed in a non-vindictive God he might actually believe he sent this as a “Hey Dude, my bad!” gift. But instead, Dean smiles. “I just might have to marry you after that, Cas.”  
  
The nickname hadn't been planned, but Dean is glad because Cas _tiel_ is a mouthful even in his thoughts. Castiel looks beyond confused, staring down at the sandwich like it will offer him the answers to the questions that plague him. He looks up and affixes his eyes again to Dean's. “You want... to marry me? And Cas...?”  
  
“Relax, I was being sarcastic. And if we're going to be friends,” because in Dean's book the quickest way to Dean is through his stomach and there is _nothing_ faster than a jalapeno sub sandwich. “You're going to need something a little shorter than _Castiel_. It doesn't bother you does it?”  
  
Castiel stares for a moment longer, before a twitch grabs hold of the side of his mouth. It's the closest thing to a smile Dean's seen from the guy and he can't accurately describe the relief he feels learning that Cas isn't Ben Stein. “It is acceptable. Far more acceptable that other names found for me.”  
  
As they walk back to where Dean typically sits, since there's actually a table to sit at, he can't help the obvious question. “So, I can only follow that up by asking what other names you've been given.”  
  
A somewhat constipated look comes over Castiel's face as the cheap plastic chair he claims as his own scrapes against the flooring. “I have been called Cassie, Cassandra, and... Cassie Cat,” he seems to admit the last one against his will.  
  
“ _Cassie Cat?”_ Dean repeats disbelieving. “I don't think given a hundred years I'd think to call you that.” Though Dean guesses he can make some similarities between his lamplike wide eyes and the tilt his head seems to favorably give. Cas says nothing in response, fully engaged in carefully unwrapping the sandwich that Dean is almost too proud to eat but god damn he's starving and greasy fries from the Roadhouse _do not_ a dinner make. He figures he'll come prepared next week with sandwiches and give Castiel one if he comes in again. Well, no use in not finding out ahead of time. “So, thanks again. I'll make it up to you next week and bring lunch if, you know, Wednesdays are going to be a regular thing for you.”  
  
Cas' head jerks up mid bite and Dean can't fight off the snort and grin that bark out of him at the sight of long bits of lettuce and piece of tomato sticking out of the corner of his mouth, his cheeks slightly stuffed like a chipmunk or equally annoyingly adorable forest animal. Not that Dean thinks forest animals are cute because they _aren't_. Castiel seems to realize he just froze and hurriedly eats his mouthful and swallowing down. “Er, yes, I will be here on Wednesdays for the foreseeable future,” he pauses in thought. “I do not know how to fix a washing machine.” 

And maybe it's the awkward way the man seems to avoid contractions or the dead seriousness in his tone but Dean is nearly out of his seat rolling in laughter. And _of course_ , his lunchmate is properly confused and _tilting_ and Dean just laughs harder. It hits him just then that he hasn't laughed this hard, this genuinely, since before his dad died. So when Castiel seems to drown in question, Dean reaches over and amiably claps his shoulder, smiles big, and digs into his sandwich.

He doesn't know if it's the company or if it's the actual sandwich, but it is the best thing Dean's ever eaten and he lets himself get cautiously optimistic about next Wednesday with his new and strange friend.


	3. Machine Wash Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use so much italicized stress that I'm legit considering getting (i) and (/i) tattooed on my wrists. lol

The rest of his week passes in the same monotonous rinse and repeat it's always been until Saturday night. Dean rakes in some good money valet parking high society's pricy sports cars at one of the most expensive restaurants in the area, _Le Petit Champignon._ From what little French Dean remembers from his freshman and sophomore years at high school ( _Secretly, Dean used to have an A average even though he knows he doesn't look it)_ he knows it translates to 'The Little Mushroom' and figures the name fits well enough because the few times he walked inside to get a soda from the kitchens, he'd seen what they're trying to pass off as a hundred dollar meal. It was some two inch square of something maroon, with drips and drizzles and bits of green stuff. He also saw something once that had _gold_ in it. Like, _legit_ gold.  
  
So this place is the very definition of pretentious and not Dean's scene in the slightest. His uniform is an overstarched white long sleeve button up, pressed black slacks, shined up black shoes, a red brocade vest, white gloves, and a small fez looking hat that Dean resolutely refuses to wear. (... _Except when he's caught without it._ ) He looks more like a bellhop than a valet but he swallows his discomfort and the belittling looks because their 'pocket change' tips are more than Dean ever spent in a day. So all in all it's a good gig; he didn't have to buy the outfit and the management keep to themselves when there are no complaints.  
  
For the most part, Dean keeps his head down and his nose to the grindstone and no one pays particular attention to him. With the way they tilt their heads up, he doubts they can even see him over their noses. It suits him just fine, or at least it does until a silver Lexus pulls up. The driver steps out talking sternly into his cellphone. Dean doesn't really look at him in the eyes and turns his attention the tinted windows where he can just make out a passenger.  As it's usually a woman, he moves to open the door. But just before his gloved hand can get close to the door it opens and out steps...  
  
 _Castiel_.  
  
The man looks tired and his eyes are absurdly bright against his pale skin and dark hair. His suit is a dark blue and is still wrapped in that tan trenchcoat and Dean allows himself a small smirk. He waits with his hand on the door for Castiel to step out of the way as the man eyes up the entrance to _La Petit Champignon_ with a furrow in his brow. He hasn't even noticed Dean yet.  
  
Dean doesn't know who Castiel is really, just four days ago they split a sub sandwich in a coin-op laundromat not talking about much before the guy was called away by the voice on the other end of his cell phone before leaving. (But not without a _'Good day, Dean. I will look forward to seeing you again next Wednesday.')_ And maybe, like Rufus, Castiel is a loaded nutjob, but somehow Cas in a Lexus or eating gold flakes for dinner just doesn't _work_ for what impression Dean has of him so far and if the look on his face is anything to by, Cas thinks the same.  
  
“I want those papers on my desk no later than eight am tomorrow morning, not eight ten or eight o three. _EIGHT.”_ Both Dean and Cas are pulled from their own trains of thought at the driver's outburst. Cas sighs and turns again and his eyes pass over Dean and _almost_ back to the restaurant front before zooming back and _tilting_.  
  
“Dean.”  It's not a question or an observation, it's a _fact_.  
  
“Cas,” Dean responds, fighting the grin in his voice as they just stare at each other for a moment.  
  
Cas steps minutely forward even though the door is still between them, his legs press against it with the effort as he takes in the sight of Dean. “You are dressed like a fez monkey.”  
  
Dean splutters and looks down at himself as the poor excuse for a hat on his head tips forward and falls off his head – or at least it would have if Cas' hand didn't shoot out to catch it against his forehead. Dean's hand reaches up to adjust the hat back on his head, brushing against Castiel's in the process. “It's my work uniform. I'm a valet.”  
  
Castiel considers this for moment, not moving just staring in the way he is wont to do until the driver who had been on the phone had finished, frustratedly slamming his door shut. Cas startles enough to take a step away from the door so Dean can close it. He realizes that if his employers had seen him just now interacting with the clientele beyond strict professionalism that he could be fired so Dean clears his throat and puts respectful distance between himself, Castiel, and the car while the driver comes round, eyes glued to his PDA, tossing his keys to Dean without so much as a hello.  
  
“Let's get a move on Cassie Cat. I don't want to linger outside; who knows what kind of rumors these _vultures_ might make up.” Dean ignores, for both his sake and the stuck up prick's next to Castiel, the dirty look the man casts over him. He guides Cas with a hand pushing insistently at the small of his back and Dean opts instead to commit the look Castiel is giving the guy as he does this to memory. It's something of a mix between frustration and disbelief. Dean almost misses how Cas' eyes shoot back to him and the apologetic twitch ready at the corner of his lips.  
  
 _Almost._  
  
  
-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
  
Dean tries not to be a defeatist. He really does because he knows if he says ' _yes_ ' and agrees to the second guessing doubtful voices echoing in his head that it will lead to a self-hating spiral that will probably put him on the floor looking down at the bottom of a bottle of Jack. Dean has learned to hold on tenuously to stable-seeming good things. Well, that and he doesn't want to end up like his father. ( _Hello daddy issues!)  
  
_ Which is why he's trying not to feel let down when Castiel is late. Well to be fair, he's only an hour past the time he's shown up for the past two times he's been here and he knows you can't make a pattern out of two weeks. But he can't help but think that maybe it's because the man found out that Dean's a valet and clearly he keeps the company of those who look down on professions like that. But then again Dean did nothing to suggest he's anyone but who he is and refuses to feel bad for making legit money doing something rich people can't be assed to do. ( _Parking cuts into their Blackberry time.)_ But Castiel _also_ used the laundromat.  
  
And Dean is acting like such a friggin girl that he starts to seriously think that he should pass up his man card and change his name to _Deana_ and start singing show tunes at the alternative dive bar on the other side of town. For all he knows, Cas' Toyota POS gave up the ghost or his trench got stuck in his car door in such a way that the door is jammed.  
  
And maybe Castiel doesn't want to see him.  
  
Dean( _a_ ) sighs, lightly rolling the extra ten inch sub sandwich he made that morning in his hand. He even got a new jar of jalapenos to show Cas how it's really done. Well the bright side is that Dean doesn't have to make food later for Sammy.  
  
And just then, in a flurry of tan fabric, Castiel is pulling open the laundromat door, making the old bell over the door tinkle. Dean watches as Castiel's eyes flit around quickly before finding him where he's sitting on a front load washer and something akin to a smirk spots his face just for a moment before he walks quickly over to Dean. Cas says nothing as he promptly pulls himself up _right next_ to Dean, half on the machine that Dean is on and half on the one next to it even though there is more than enough room for him to take up his own machine.  
  
“I was beginning to think you might not show up. I was gonna have to eat your sandwich.” Castiel stares at him and then the tinfoil wrapped object in his hand with mild surprise like he hadn't actually expected Dean to make him a sandwich and maybe he didn't. But Dean tries to be a man of his word whenever he can. “I told you I was going to. You still want it?”  
  
Cas blinks hard several times before snatching the sandwich from Dean, who only smirks and huffs a laugh as tinfoil is quickly shredded. It isn't until Castiel has wolfed down two whole bites ( _seemingly without chewing no less)_ that he realizes his social faux pas and swallows thickly around the last bit in his mouth before looking up into Dean's wide green eyes. “I... apologize. That was rather rude.”  
  
Dean nearly knocks Cas off the washer when he claps him on the shoulder laughing. “Dude, don't _even_. The way you attacked that thing, when's the last time you even _ate?_ ”  
  
The shorter man beside him seems to be socially aware enough to flush lightly as he looks down at his sandwich meaningfully, like the jalapenos and assorted meats and _greenery_ ( _which he only puts on there because of Samantha)_ will tell him what to say. “Not since yesterday morning.”  
  
“What the hell? Do you not like food or something?” Deans says as if Cas had personally offended him and, to be truthful, he had because Dean _loves_ food. Especially _pie_ and _jalapenos_. Dean briefly entertains the notion of a jalapeno pie before he comes back to the more pressing issues at hand.  
  
Cas shakes his head, taking a moment to respond as he had snatched another bite while Dean was talking. “I was very busy at work. I have to work through my lunch sometimes.” The way Castiel says that last bit seems a bit heavy, like there is more he could say but chooses not to. “When I got home I just went to sleep and then my alarm clock didn't go off properly and I woke up late and in my rush to get to you I forgot to eat breakfast.”  
  
Dean doesn't miss the way that the disheveled man beside his says _you_ and not _here_ but says nothing about it. “So I'm guessing you don't go out to dinner every night?” he says lightly, watching as Castiel eats the last of his sandwich with only slightly more contained fervor. He doesn't know what he expects the man to respond with but he knows that _growling_ wasn't high up there. “What?”  
  
“That was Lucas' idea even... I hate places like that.” Tinfoil is balled up vengefully between pale skinny fingers. “They always look at me like they know that I don't belong there.”  
  
“Lucas was the guy on the phone right?” A nod. “Who's he?” Dean figures if its too personal Castiel won't answer. And for a minute, he's pretty sure he won't.  
  
“My boss.” Castiel's face looks crestfallen and Dean can read people pretty well. He could push it and find out what's really going on but he doesn't want to violate the strange man next to him. They really don't know each other well enough yet. “I apologize for his behavior. He isn't – he has not always been that way.”  
  
“Pff, don't sweat it. Douchebags come a dime a dozen there and really he didn't even do anything offensive. Never apologize for him, okay?” Castiel nods affirmatively and they settle into a slow conversation about random things. Castiel's most hated color is red, he has a brother named Gabriel, he wears a size ten shoe, he has a freckle under his left nipple ( _which he shared after staring at the faint freckles on Dean's face),_ and he once had a pet squirrel named Hector until it got brutalized by the neighbor's Hummer. Alternatively, Dean's most hated color is pink, he gushes about Sam, he wears a size ten and a half shoe, and the weirdest pet he ever kept was a  dust bunny named Kevin when he was five before it his mother's Dirt Devil laid claim to it. He carefully steers the topics away from his work so he won't have to awkwardly explain himself because he feels strangely compelled to tell Castiel anything he wants to know about and that scares him. He would probably tell him his bank account number if he asked for it and Dean doesn't understand why such an odd man would invoke something like that in him.  
  
Maybe he's related to Andy.  
  
Dean observes quietly while Castiel diligently separates white button ups and under shirts from  dark socks and tees. He frowns when he pulls up one and finds a whole in the arm pit and stares at it like it will mend itself and awkward finger tips trace the edge. In Dean's book, Castiel just might win the Most Awkwardly Friggin Adorable Thing In History award for just being himself. He thinks about that for all of about thirty seconds before shaking his head with a grin.  
  
“Give it here.” Dean holds out an expectant hand. Blue eyes lock on his fingers and then to his face. Dragging his hand over his face and tired smile, he gestures. “The shirt, I can fix it.” Those eyes dart from the shirt to Dean as if either might spontaneously combust if he didn't do so before hesitantly handing his shirt over. Dean hops back up on the machine nearest him and pulls out a small sewing kit from his pocket and gets to work. Turning the shirt inside out he deftly threads the small needle in one go, knotting it, and stitching away. Castiel is _so_ close Dean legs pick up the heat from his body through his jeans. He looks up to see that the man is _totally_ absorbed with what he is doing. And not even a minute later he finishes up, bites the thread, and passes the shirt back to a bewildered Castiel.  
  
“Thank you,” he blinks, looking deeply into his green eyes. Dean doesn't flinch much anymore or move back, growing accustomed to Castiel's lack of personal space. “I would not have been able to do the same.”  
  
Popping the thread and needle back in the cheap plastic case, Dean hops off the washer to get back to his own clothes. “Sure you could. You just have to practice. At first you'll suck but you learn out necessity when you need to.”  
  
Castiel is running his fingers over the freshly mended bit reverently, quirking his lips oddly. “Could you teach me?”  
  
This is reason enough for Dean to pause. “Sure thing,” he pauses before grinning, “ _Cassie-Cat.”_  
  
Dean isn't sure how he did it, but Castiel somehow managed to direct Todd's violent tendencies towards him for the next fifteen minutes – he took three G.I. Joes to the head, stepped on a matchbox car, and sat on a dinosaur. But the sneaky grin between the two reminds Dean of the way Sam and him used to be and the nostalgia wears away at any annoyance he has.  
  
  
-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
  
“Ow.”  
  
“Watch your fingers.”  
  
“Ow.”  
  
“No, like this see?”  
  
“Ow.”  
  
“You're doing this on purpose aren't you?"  
  
“...”  
  
“Keep it up _Cassie_.”  
  
“...”  
  
“OW! What the hell man?! What did I tell you about enlisting Todd?”  
  
“...”  
  
“Keep friggin smirking you jerk. I hope you stab yourself with that damn needle.”  
  
“....Ow.”  
  
  
-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
  
Sure enough, the new addition to his Wednesday routine makes it one of the only bright points of his week, Dean starts counting time as it passes in terms of Wednesdays, which always contain an element of surprise with Cas.  
  
The following Wednesday is no exception; it's pouring. Like cats and dogs and even friggin cows. Dean's just happy his baby survived that big ass puddle on Main Street. Only Anna and some blonde girl are in the laundromat. Dean is carefully tearing out coupons in the hum of silence.  
  
The door chimes and in walks a damp and downtrodden Cas, which makes Dean think of a drowned cat. An old Nokia cell phone is pressed to his ear while the other hand tries to hold up a basket of clothes against his hip; he's failing miserably. Dean ( _the Prince Charming that he undoubtedly is_ ) doesn't waste any time hurrying over to take it from him right before it falls out of his hand. Blue eyes look over at him gratefully before they're pulled down and closed while Cas massages his temples. Dean doesn't mean to eavesdrop but the store is quiet and the guy on the phone is really _really_ loud. Castiel tries to interject every now and then but only gets a syllable or two out before the voice on the phone raises.  
  
' _Don't fucking interrupt me!'_  
  
And then silence.  
  
“...Hello? Lucas?” Dean hates Lucas because Cas looks so defeated and confused as he just stares at the backlit screen.  
  
Dean waits a moment. “Everything ok, Cas? Do I have to beat Luc up?” And the strange thing is he probably would if he was here right now. About the only thing that would keep him from doing it is the threat of going to jail for assault. ( _But that won't stop him from putting a bunch of bananas in the guy's gas tank and one up the tail pipe for good luck.)  
  
_ Castiel swallows and pockets his phone. “No. Things are merely... _difficult_.”  
  
“Are you on break or something right now? I mean, why is your boss calling you up on our time off and giving you a slice of hell?” They move back into their corner. ( _Although Dean's not sure when he mentally started referring to it as_ their _corner but he's not going to deny he looks forward to Wednesdays now.)_ He finally has a friend who's not an amiable coworker; an honest to God friend. He isn't about to carve their names into the table or anything but he can't deny it's an amazing thing to have.  
  
“I... he,” Castiel fumbles. “We are...”  
  
“Jesus Cas, are you knocking boots with your boss?” Dean asks incredulously, half joking. While he never would have pegged Castiel as the type to engage in illicit activities with upper management, he could picture Cas as the kinky librarian/accountant with his sex-disheveled hair and trenchcoat.  
  
“I do not own boots although I believe Lucas owns a pair.” Facepalm.  
  
“No,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I meant are you sleeping with Lucas?”  
  
And it's like Dean has a hook into the answer behind Castiel's chapped lips and is reeling it in because he slightly shorter man seems to fight against his tongue and teeth. “...Yes.” Dean admires Cas' blunt honesty and forthrightness just long enough to numb the shock that a guy like Castiel, oddball extraordinaire, is sleeping with a dick, in more ways than one.  
  
Dean can't help the mildly impressed look and eyebrow pop that shows on his face. He really half expected to get a vehement no and find out that Castiel was a virgin. And of course he could lay into Castiel about ethics and the common policies regarding fraternization in the workplace but Dean's no angel and he knows it so instead he settles for: “So he is always that much of a dick? I mean, from what I've seen and over heard of the guy he seems like a bag of douche.”  
  
Castiel slumps into one of the cheap plastic chairs, his coat a wrinkled cape around him. “It is not– he is just stressed. Not,” he screws his face up and gesticulates vaguely, “It isn't like this _all_ the time.”  
  
Dean's played the ear to enough girls at the bar trying to justify their shitty boyfriends while crying because of them to know that 'not _all_ the time' really means 'the moments he _isn't_ are few and far between.' Dean doesn't know if it's because of some latent masochism or Stockholm Syndrome that people will put up with this but it angers him. He takes relationships and marriage seriously even though he's really never had a serious relationship. He swore after cleaning up after his father and putting a smile back on his mother's face, even through the tears, when he was only _six_ to never do to anyone what his father did to his mother.  
  
But he also doesn't want to alienate Cas by tearing him down to get the truth. Dean eases into the chair next to him, his back a tight mess from rearranging stock the night before at the Roadhouse, and knocks Castiel's leg with his own.  He liberates two beers, admittedly the really cheap kind but at least it wasn't Corona (friggin piss), from the cooler underneath the table and wrenches both open deftly before passing one to Cas.  
  
Dean takes a swig, wishing for something stronger or something that didn't taste a step above _ass_ , when Cas just... well, Cas just _downs_ the entire god damn thing and then just stares at the empty bottle and then Dean with a look of puzzled consternation on his face.  
  
And then Castiel doesn't burp; he _belches,_ LOUDLY. Cas has the grace to look shocked at the sound before Dean is crying with laughter and prying the top off another beer.  
  
  
-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
  
It's a slow night at the Roundhouse that Friday. Henricksen had some sort of nerd convention to go to so Jo's there to help Dean close. He gives it about another thirty minutes and is already flipping chairs on the back tables while Jo mans the bar to close tabs. Being behind the bar gives one certain _privileges._  
  
A slow piano opening playing over the loud speaker has Dean pausing on the chair he's flipping to call out a disbelieving, “REO? Really?”  
  
Jo shoots him a wide grin and a cocked eyebrow as she dries off part of the counter. “Don't be a hater, Dean. Cronin sings it from the heart! You could do a little with learning to do the same.” Sometimes Dean can't believe he was ever attracted to her, except he could totally believe it, except now it would be so weird. She's pretty much his sister at this point. Just a sister with a rockin' bod and a smarmy need-to-prove-myself-all-the-time-because-I-think-I'm-a-badass attitude.  
  
“That man sings it from the _hair_ , heart's got nothin' to do with it, Sweetheart.” Dean scoffs, his back whining when he picks up the last chair at an odd angle. Well, he's telling himself it's an odd angle that would hurt anyone's back and not a sign that he's falling apart. He's only twenty-three but he feels like forty and he's pretty sure he's going have arthritis _tomorrow_ from all the shit he does.  
  
He catches himself humming along to _I Can't Fight This Feeling Anymore_ and answers Jo's knowing smirk as he approaches the bar with the Spaceballs salute before reaching over and grabbing a bottle of water. The ballad makes his eyes heavy and his thoughts a touch depressing because sometimes Dean would like to forget what he's fighting for just to have a moment of respite but he quashes it underneath his mental thumb for thinking such a thing. If he worked hard enough for long enough this would pan out and Sam would be set and...  
  
And then, well. Everyone will be happy right?  
  
“So, how'd it go at the bank?” She's twisting a long bit of that meticulously maintained blonde hair (the butt of so, so, so, _so_ many jokes) about her fingers. Dean can remember what she looked like when she was a squat brunette with pimples and braces and takes a long gulp of water to hide his grin.  
  
But then the question sinks in and he frowns, twisting the plastic bottle in his hand like somehow the slight crinkling of the more environmentally sound thin plastic would somehow tell him the secrets of the universe. The sarcasm is thick on his voice, “Dandy.”  
  
Dean sort of feels like he's suffocating even all the hugs in the world from Jo can't help.

 

_Baby, I can't fight this feeling anymore._


	4. Dry Clean Only

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit short compared to other chapters. Been a month of not awesome so hopefully I'll be better now. Go February!

 

“Sarcasm.”  
  
“Sarcasm,” Castiel parrots.  
  
Dean rubs a hand down his face. How in the hell does he explain what sarcasm is?  
  
“Ok, so... Sarcasm is when you say something you don't necessarily mean but with conviction.”  
  
“Like a lie?”  
  
“No, yes... not _exactly._ Like if someone asked you if you needed something, someone could say, ' _I need that like I need another hole in the head._ '”  
  
“There is already a hole in your head?” And god damnit, Cas _looks.  
  
_ _“_ What're you – no! There's no – stop touching my head! … No. That's sarcasm. Ok, different example. If you are painting a fence-- stop it, I know you're not painting a fence! _Hypofrigginthetically_ if you _were_ painting a fence for some reason, and someone came up and _asked, 'You painting a fence?'_ Then you could answer--”  
  
“Yes. Yes I am painting a fence.”  
  
“No! You could answer _sarcastically,_ and say ' _No. I'm building a spaceship.'_ or ' _Yes. It needed a fresh coat after I impaled my last neighbor on it for asking stupid questions.'”  
  
_ _“_ You killed a man, Dean? That is a sin.”  
  
 _“_ No I didn-- wait. Did you?Was that... _sarcasm?"  
  
_ This time Castiel's smile isn't just a telling twitch, there's actually the hint of toothy action and it makes Dean a little ~~fuzzy~~ warm inside. (He's a man damnit, fuzzy in not in his friggin vocabulary.) The moment ends when, in a particularly spectacular fashion, Todd barrels around the corner with his Batmobile and juice and trips and douses the back of Cas' shirt in grape juice. Of course, Todd's only concerned about how one of the wheels on the toy popped off and slid underneath the vending machine nearby to really care about what he did to Castiel. But Mrs. Todd's mom had heard the commotion and is a rush of apologies and stern _We're going to talk about this later_ looks to Todd, who shuffles his feet mumbling an apology while he tries to pop the wheel back on behind his back.  
  
Dean carefully schools the amusement out of his face because he doesn't want that look of matriarchal disapproval turned to him by laughing because Todd might take it as encouragement. However, looking at Cas who is poking his head over his shoulder and turning around like a dog chasing his tail in order to see the damage on his ruined button up immediately makes him cough on a snort and he bites his lip _so hard_ Dean's pretty sure he's drawn blood.  
  
Castiel stops turning and just looks at Dean with his arms held out on either side as if they too were covered in juice. And really, it could have been worse. There's only a splash on the back and it barely got on his pants. He just looks so haplessly helpless. Dean takes pity on the bewildered man.  
  
“Well, hurry up and take it off. If we wash it now, there's a good chance we can save it.” It's wildly convenient that they are in a laundromat. Dean overhears Todd whining on the other side where his mother is scolding him but stops listening when Castiel starts obediently unbuttoning his shirt. Not wanting to stare (and really, Cas is spoken for, by a douche, but spoken for nonetheless and Dean isn't in a place to do anything anyways) Dean turns to his pile of still warm laundry and picks out an old black t-shirt because all of Cas' wash is still drying.  
  
Enough grape juice soaked through that the wife beater had to go too and Dean is staring a little. Ok, so he's staring _a lot_ but Cas is such an awkward thing and he wears suits that aren't fitted with oversized trenchcoats and crooked ties which made him seem so lanky and frail and he's _not_. Cas is skinny but toned and it looks like there's barely any fat to him which immediately makes Dean assess 'the pouch' (aka the area of his body that is starting to store all those sides of fries from the Roadhouse) and he sucks it in a bit before handing the shirt over.  
  
“Here, you can borrow this.”  
  
Castiel just stares, shifting his gaze between the lump of off black fabric to Dean and Dean _really_ needs him to take it because he really shouldn't be distracted by his half naked friend. So Dean tosses the shirt jovially at his face and grabs the soiled shirts to pretreat them and stuff them in an available washer before he makes an ass of himself.  
  
“Thank you, Dean,” comes that gravely voice and Dean turns his head and double takes because he's never seen Castiel in anything but button downs and suit jackets and a t-shirt makes him seem so... relaxed. And it's stupid because Dean is totally overanalyzing this and he feels like one of Mrs. Todd's mom's Cosmo magazines but he can't help the appraising tilt of his eyebrow as he takes in the old thin tee fitting perfectly Cas. Arms hang at his side that are so pale that Dean thinks they've probably never seen the light of day.  
  
“You can actually keep that one if you want. It's getting too small for Sam.” It's true, the shirt had shrunk a bit from washing and Sam had gotten too big for it long ago but he wears it around the house sometimes when the laundry is low.  
  
Castiel looks down the at the shirt and back at Dean. Dean is expecting the tried and true response about how Cas can't accept it (because there's a pattern now of Dean passing off bits of food or headlight bulbs on Wednesdays and Dean's been trying to teach him how to shut up and say--  
  
“Thank you, Dean.”  
  
And, damn. There's teeth in that smile.  
  
Dean is kind of (see also: royally, totally, completely) fucked.  
  
  
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-  
  
  
Castiel doesn't show the following Wednesday. He sends Dean:  
  
 **I HAVE BEEN CALLED INTO WORK MY ASPARAGUS  
  
** **APOLOGIES I DON'T HAVE ASPARAGUS  
  
** Dean spends a solid fifteen minutes trying to figure our whether or not Cas is a Master Troll who's been playing Dean like a fiddle since day one. In retaliation, Dean takes a picture of the asparagus ad in the paper:  
  
 **I could pick you up some, they're on sale.  
  
** Not a minute later, Dean barks out a laugh.  
  
 **I HAVE NO DESIRE TO HAVE ODD URINE  
  
** “Ooooh, who's 'Cas'?”  
  
Dean jumps out of his skin and rubs his hand down his face. ( _Fucking Becky.)_ He doesn't manage a single syllable before she comes around from where she has clearly been reading over his shoulder to sit next to him with creepy unblinking eyes and a frankly terrifying smile. “Is it your boyfriend?”  
  
“Cas is--”  
  
“Just a friend? Well that's what they all say.”  
  
“No it--”  
  
“Not like that? Do you _want_ it to be?"  
  
“What are--”  
  
“Your deflection is suspect. I believe that's a yes.”  
  
“The hell--”  
  
“Trust me, I'm a professional. Does he feel the same?”  
  
“Stop i--”  
  
“No? He's not gay, yet?”  
  
“No--”  
  
“So he is gay! OH! HE'S TAKEN!”  
  
“Yes but--”  
  
“O.M.G. Your unrequited love and endless devotion to your friend, whom you can only watch forlornly from the sidelines while he makes passionate love with another man who isn't you, is so heartbreaking. Plot bunny!”  
  
“What's a--”  
  
“Hey, do you mind if I use your life as a basis for my Sterek fanfiction?”  
  
“Please go aw--”  
  
“This is going to get _sooo_ many kudos, see ya later Derek!”  
  
Becky is gone in the next second and Dean feels so violated and confused that he can only mouth _What the fuck?_ Before forcibly returning his mind to his phone.  
  
 **Where's your sense of adventure?  
  
** **I HAVE IMPALED IT ON MY FENCE**  
  
It's official; Castiel is a troll.  
  
  
  
-~-~-~-~-~-~- 

 

Dean startles awake with his blood pumping in his ears. He casts his eyes around earning looks from disgruntled mothers to his left and right. The droning on the PA system echoing in the cavernous ceiling the gym clicks heavily in his mind. One of Sam's smarty-pants awards. He usually crashed between his shift at Bobby's and Roadhouse on Fridays – but it's worth it to lose a little sleep in order to watch his brother stand head and shoulders over the rest of his class drowning in embarrassment over his overachievement.  
  
Being a Winchester means being the last person or the second to last person called so Dean can't be blamed for trying to get as comfortable as he can on the ass-numbing bleachers until Sammy is called. The principal had made some sort of announcement in the beginning about not cheering individually for each student so as to get through the ceremony faster, but when “Sam Winchester” echoes tonelessly overhead, Dean stands up and whoops loudly. Sam always makes fun of him because he says Dean's whoop sounds like the chick from Avatar calling her bird-dinosaur...thing. Dean does it mostly to embarrass Sam who cringes when the principal shakes his hand.  
  
“You're gonna get banned from these things,” Sam laughs as he jogs through the crowd before tossing an arm around Dean and clapping his back. Dean mourns the fact that if Sam gets much taller he'll be armpit level with him and makes a mental note to replace his vitamins with sugar pills.  
  
“That's the idea, Sasquatch. So let's see this thing, what exactly is this one for?” Dean doesn't even let him hand it over before he's tugging it out of his brother's hands but handling it carefully. It's some award for academic excellence for some test. Dean can't tell the difference between them anymore. “This certificate certifies that Samuel Winchester is still far less cool than Dean Winchester, the coolest son of a bitch that has ever lived. Well, we already knew that.”  
  
Dean tries to hold the certificate out of reach as they walk out but Sam is just made of limbs and Dean still wins because he gets to drive and drown Samantha gloating the dulcet tones of AC/DC.  
  
They have their celebratory meal at Roadhouse as they always do taking their regular table in the back next to the kitchens where their food is already being made by Ash. The wall behind the table is filled with pictures of the crew posing or doing stupid things. More than half have Sam in them and it showcases a time when he used to be human sized.   
  
Sam seems to wait for the moment when Dean is working on the mouthful of his double bacon jalapeno cheeseburger when he clears his throat and pushes his plate away. “I applied to a couple colleges in state.”  
  
Dean immediately stops chewing; the burger turns to ash in his mouth as he chokes it down and drowns it in beer. “Stanfor---”  
  
“Stop Dean!” Sam whispers fiercely. “Having options isn't a bad thing – it's not guaranteed I'll get into Stanford, they're really picky and--”  
  
Dean interrupts, dumping his plate on Sam's so all their left overs can go in one box when Sam heads out. “They're going to take you.”  
  
“Dean. _Please,”_ Sam pleads and _damn_ those puppy eyes.  
  
But Dean refuses to give in.  
  
“You still have to finish your essay for Stanford. Make sure you put this certificate on there.” Dean drains the rest of his beer, suddenly very tired. He side eyes the clock over the kitchen door and he's got less than an hour before his shift starts.  
  
“I know, I'm actually going to try to make a video app and we're getting off topic. I, Dean you know I really... What you're doing for me. That's worth more to me than getting into Stanford. It'd be nice but it's not the be all end all. I can still be a lawyer if I don't go there. I've seen some of the mail about the loans you've been trying to take out.”  
  
And there it is. Dean doesn't make enough or doesn't have enough collateral and can't reason his way around his shit poor credit score to get these places to give him a loan or co-sign anything. He taken out several loans to cover rent, doctor's appointments, braces, and Dean's stint in the hospital (When he managed to electrocute himself. Long story but he survived.) Bobby  isn't in any position either and while he'd like to think he never would have asked, Ellen came up to him to tell him she was sorry she couldn't do anything and _just_ by the skin of her teeth in this recession was she able to keep the bar open and send Jo to college next year.  
  
In this moment, he hates his father. He hates the debt he left in simply not being around. And maybe it's Sam taking pity on him or some other kind of miracle, but Sam tips his bottle of root beer against Dean's empty one. “But there's nothing to worry about. I may not be the 'cool' one, but I'm definitely the brains of this operation. I'll figure it out.”  
  
Dean smirks slightly. “Yeah, well, as long as you remember me and introduce me to some hot college tail.” And Dean doesn't think about Cas as he says that.  
  
He doesn't.  
  
Nope.  
  
 _Damnit_.

 

 

  



	5. Delicates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've become what I hate -- that fic that grabs your interest and then just.... doesn't update. Ever. Or for like, 5 months. I'M SO SORRY. I'm going to be so much better. Thanks to everyone for checking back and buggin me to update :D

It's only after two months after meeting Castiel that Dean realizes he doesn't know exactly what it is that the odd man does for work. He's obviously some kind of business man or tax accountant. Initially, he had avoided questions about employment because he didn't want to answer the question himself but Dean is more confident now in what kind of person Castiel is.

 

“I am an executive administrative assistant.”

 

Dean pauses on a mouthful of some of the greatest tasting pie he's ever had in his life (which takes _a lot_ , let's be honest here.) “Whoor ha wha?”

 

Castiel stares at Dean, head tilt set to full, before spearing another piece of cherry pie onto his plastic fork. “I suppose you would understand it as a secretary.”

 

Choking down his mouthful of awesomeness, Dean chokes out, “You're your boyfriend's secretary? That's some kinky shit there, Cas.” Because really, the power play that looms over that kind of relationship borders between wildly and _unimaginably_ unhealthy.

 

Castiel narrows his eyes for a few long seconds until he exceeds the Standard Window for Witty Rebuttal. But Cas is anything but conforming and finally comes back with, “I feel like fez monkeys should not have opinions about executive administrative assistants and their sexual proclivities.”

 

“Oh yeah? Well-- Well!” _Well?_ Dean huffs and stuffs and overly large forkful of or-pie-asm in his mouth. “The student has surpassed the master,” he mutters and laments that not only is Sammy wisening up and taking Dean to church but now Castiel is too.

 

“Are you a full-time fez monkey?” Dean should be proud that he has fostered and nurtured that perfect deadpan delivery. Note: _should_ be.

 

“No, and it's pronounced ' _valet_ ' you smart ass.” He frowns at his pie crumbs. “I'm a bartender and stock monkey--- stock _person_ at Roadhouse too and a mechanic and Bobby's Auto, that joint near the highway?” He figures those are the main bases and he'll never be proud to say he occasionally helps unload fish at five in the morning on weekends. Thinking about the smell sends a revolting shiver down his spine and for the first time in his life he's actually relieved there's no more pie left for the thought to taint the taste of. “Speaking of, I picked these up for you.”

 

Castiel just blinks while he rifles around his bag for a set of headlight bulbs compatible for a Ford Tercel. “They're really easy to switch out – figure we'll pop these guys in once we're done.” When it looks like Cas might say something, because Dean brings something small every week or so to improve Cas' death trap, he cuts him off. “I can't in good conscience let you drive around without functioning head lights. Now that we fixed the crack casing they shouldn't blow out anymore.”

 

Holding them out, all Dean gets is a stare. He shakes them pointedly closer to Cas and the other man finally takes them from him, turning them over in his long hands. “You give me too much, Dean.”

 

“Don't sweat it, Cas. It's was friends are for. Besides, **pie.** ” Really, pie is the answer. Pie (and Sammy) are his reasons for life. And yes, _maybe_ Dean gifts things to Cas but it's a two-way road and Dean's really never had a friend, a good friend even, like Castiel. Maybe his hindbrain thinks that by presenting him with shiny ( _cheap_ ) things that Cas will stay. And isn't that a vulnerable position?

 

“I shall bring you more pie to make up for this.”

 

Now Dean will tear anybody down who thinks he's a charity case, but there is one thing he's willing to sell his soul for.

 

Pie.

 

Technicolor daydreams of pie are cut short by a yawn.

 

“Tired, huh? And what were we doing last night? Playing a game of “Where's My Stapler?” with the boss man?” Dean chides.

 

Headtilt. “'Where's my stapler?'”

 

“Nevermind it sounded better in my head. You and Lucas up late bumpin uglies?” For the first time Dean in a few months, Dean actually got about seven hours of sleep. Ellen came in for the night shift around nine and told Dean to take off early and while he normally wouldn't be happy about hours lost, but he'd been in rough shape all week. The prospect of an early Tuesday night with a Wednesday morning sleep in sounded like Heaven's angels just crooning in his ear.

 

“No. He is out of the country for a business retreat.” Castiel gives a lazy blink and his throat clenches while he swallows a yawn. “I was attempting to put together furniture. I gave up at four am.”

 

“What the hell were you trying to put together?” Dean believes in the patron saint of Hammers, Nails, Superglue, and Duct Tape for his furniture woes. But then again he's never had to assemble any of his own; all his pieces are rescues.

 

“A bookshelf from IKEA.” Never has a four-word sentence explained more in the history of mankind.

 

Dean really tries to stifle the bubbling laugh, he really does. But he fails fantastically because he's been to an IKEA before with Henricksen when the man enlisted his help once to put this bed frame with storage drawers together. He remembers chugging down beers watching Henricksen slowly go insane. He may or may not have hid a very crucial piece as payback for spraying Liquid Ass in the stock room right before Dean was supposed to do inventory.

 

Cas' look of slight indignation fuels Dean's laughter for a few more moments before he finally comes back to himself. “Dude, IKEA is Swedish for “Let's see if you can put this shit together.””

 

He half nods his assent. “While I am used to encountering resistance during assembly of IKEA products, this is the first piece where the solution has completely eluded me.” Cas' eyes narrow and Dean strongly suspects that Castiel is lost in a flashback to last night.

 

“How much shit from IKEA do you have?” Frankly, after that last comment, Dean's a little afraid to ask.

 

“I have approximately forty pieces of assembled furniture and twenty awaiting assembly.” Castiel has at least the presence of mind to look a little embarrassed by his admission and continues and a lower tone. “Gabriel has taken to inform me that he thinks I have an addiction.”

 

There are a great many questions that come to Dean's mind. How long has Cas been _assembling_ ? Exactly how much furniture are they talking about? Where the hell does he live that he can have _sixty_ pieces of furniture? How can he  _afford_ it? But he doesn't ask any. "I think you should contact IKEA and ask to be their spokesperson. You could be a superhero: Captain IKEA, and your catchphrase could be “Furniture! Assemble!” as you run around with a screwdriver and a huge manual.” Dean is not ashamed to laugh at his own jokes until he's tearing up. If no one else laughs well then their sense of humor is a dry as the toast Sammy makes in the morning.  


“Captain IKEA would only be as good as his stock monkey sidekick, Fez.”

 

Castiel : 2

Dean: 0

 

-~-~-~-~-~-~-

 

After Castiel leaves ever beckoned away by Lucas and the siren song of an incomplete furniture piece, Dean is tossing away the empty take away containers that serve as a sad memorial for the delicious pie that once resided in it when he notices Anna walk in.

 

It's odd.

 

It's odd because Anna's very nature is reminiscent of a quiet stealth ninja mouse. She's all meek disposition, careful spindly fingers, and straight hair. But today her hair is haphazard a her fingers a white-knuckled mess on her netted laundry bag. He only has a second to look before the bag catches on the empty laundry cart that's missing a wheel and the tug of her bag is enough to send it toppling over, jerking all her carefully folded clothes to the floor. She lets out sound that sounds like a laugh and a sob all at once and she just catches her face in her hands to breathe.

 

Dean's in front of her before he can think to move, detangling the bag and righting the cart. He quickly and as neatly as possible stacks the clothes on the floor on the top of the nearby machine. Halfway through, she kneels quietly next to him and her long shaky fingers are moving to help. Her face is red but she isn't crying.

 

“Bad day?” Dean offers gently, staying crouched next to her as he puts the last pair of jeans on top of the washer.

 

She laughs loudly; it's an alien sound that Dean's never heard from her before. She makes a motion with her hands around her face that says “That's obvious, just look at me.”

 

“What? You look fantastic,” he says with a cocksure grin.

 

A self deprecating snort and a small crooked smile rise to the occasion. “Not the most appropriate time, Dean.” The smile drops and Dean pulls up a seat sitting on the floor with his back to the washer and pats the floor next him and Anna slides into place next to him, long legs bent within the circle of her arms.

 

He lets his right leg splay open, bringing his knee close to her, with his hands laying across his lap. They're the only ones here now and the afternoon sun is blocked here and there by machines and posters in the window and the ambient sound of washers and dryers is enough to get Dean to relax despite sitting on a uncomfortanle linoleum floor.

 

“I came out to my parents.” Her voice is small, barely a whisper above the tumbling clothes. He waits for her to continue without pressing. They've never really spoken about anything at length or even remotely significant before so this is news to him too. “They have – _had_ this idea. About me. That I'm perfect like a marble statue. And I felt like I had no choice – ! No choice, only obediently following. Dean, do you know what it's like to just follow when _everything_ inside you screams against it?”

 

“I can relate.” Three words never felt so heavy,

 

Anna releases her legs, her thigh touching Dean's knee. She sighs and runs her hands through her hair, smoothing it. “I feel like maybe cutting out my kidney with a _butter knife_ and handing it to them at Sunday dinner would have been less devastating than turning out to be a lesbian.”

 

And isn't _that_ a picture?

 

“Well I for one would prefer you a lesbian than some sorta horror film crazy. Although it's a big loss for the heterosexual community, sure I can't persuade you?” Dean says, clearly joking but putting on his best leer-n-smirk.

 

“Is that _seriously_ your best?” Anna raises a fine red brow.

 

“Hell no. What has 142 teeth and holds back The Incredible Hulk?” Dean pauses for dramatic effect while she gives him an unimpressed look. “My zipper.”

 

“That's horrible. Just-- the worst!” If by worst she means _amazing_ then yes.

 

“Oh yeah? How do _you_ pick up chicks?” Now he's wondering what kind of clever lesbian pick up lines there are and that's definitely a train a thought he didn't think he'd be having today.

 

She stops, “I've never–“

 

“Gimme your best pick up line. C'mon.”

 

“...Lesbifriends?”

 

“Weak! I seem to have lost my underwear, may I see yours?” He pointedly looks up at the laundry bag hanging a little over the edge of the machine he's sitting back against.

 

She narrows her eyes at him and reaches up to push the bag back. “When I'm around you I can't see _straight_?” 

 

“Better. I hear the Apocalypse is going to happen tomorrow,” Dean bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing but he can't keep his lip from quaking.

 

“Really?” Her amused disbelief curls a smile on her face.

 

“Yeah, Well, last night on Earth. What are your plans?” To be fair, he'd read that one somewhere and has been dying to use it even if it gets him slapped. It's just _too_ good.

 

They both dissolve into a fit of unapologetic laughter occasionally broken up by snorts and half-words and phrases that never get completed. Dean's jaw and abs burn from all the laughing. The moment calms and Dean's dryer buzzes that it's completed it cycle. Anna's smile smooths and she sighs.

 

“For what it's worth, if they let something like this get in way, then you're better off. Because the day might come where they won't be here anymore and you'll find yourself realizing how much you've been living for someone else's expectations instead of your own.” Dean coughs because he feels like he's preaching and touchy-feelies aren't really his thing but damnit if all of Sam's little heart to heart talks don't help him figure out how to better handle these situations. He swears sometimes he almost sounds like a functioning adult. Mostly he's wishing someone told this to him before his dad died. But he probably would have been too young to really do anything with it.

 

Anna's quiet for a moment before she drops her head on his shoulder.

 

“Thanks, Dean.”


	6. Low Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T SHOOT ME! 
> 
> Turns out you can lose 3 pints of blood and live without needing a transfusion *however* recovering from that is basically like becoming a sloth for a month and a half. During my more lucid moments I was working on this in my head. I did my best for this chapter, it's not crazy long but I wanted to put something up at least.

**DEAN – I WILL BE ARRIVING LATE.**

This, to Dean, translates to one of the following:  
1\. Dean – You are right ( _as always_ ) – my car is a deathtrap.  
2\. Dean – I am buried beneath a pile of oak table pieces. Wait 15 minutes and then send help.  
3\. Dean – You are right ( _as always_ ) – my boyfriend is Satan.

Dean's inclined to think Door Number Three because these past few weeks there had rarely been a time where they didn't get interrupted by Luc's inability to function without Castiel doing absolutely everything for him. It's as if Cas isn't to have a life outside of working for him both in the office and out. Dean doesn't like it one bit. The apprehensive look and tenseness his shoulders take on whenever his phone rings speaks the volumes that Castiel won't.

And look, it's not for lack of trying on Dean's part. It's a foreign thing for him really. He never understood the girls at the bar who complained about abusive relationships who don't just get out. It seems so simple to him – if it hurts, get out. But he knows, like with his mother, the irrationality of feeling. For the most part, he doesn't fight for them to change their lives. He listens and they tip and the world moves on. Does he wish he could punch these assholes in the face? Hell yes. But he's not Asshole Vigilante and –

Wait, that sounds wrong.

“Asshole Vigilante,” he chuckles as he thumbs in a few quarters for his next load of wash. Unfortunately for him, the old lady folding her rather large pairs of underwear across from him hears him and he watches with dawning humiliation as her face shrivels into confused disgust. He offers a quick smile and a small schmoozy, “Hey there,” before swallowing and turning back to the task at hand.

Anyways, things are different with Cas. Dean cares. And really, he probably (re: _totally_ ) cares too much and that's a tricky situation to be in. He's constantly toeing the line between being a politely concerned friend and one that's ready to start a World War III over something that's really not his business. He hasn't seen Luc since that one night at Le Petit Champignon almost three months ago now but he feels like Cas is never without him. There is always a shadow on him and he's starting to ask for permission and forgiveness of Dean for small things he had never done so for before.

Anytime Dean brings the subject up, Cas nods along and very neatly and politely assures him that, “Thank you, Dean, but everything is fine.” It makes Dean want to tear his hair out because he can't do anything. He prides himself on being useful. _Yes_ , he's brash, speaks without thinking, makes corny jokes, more often than not is kind of an asshole, and a total flirt but at the end of the day Dean finds that being useful to others and being good at what he does gives him purpose and that helps him sleep at night even when his demons tortuously keep him awake.

But he's not going to give up.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-

Twenty minutes later and Dean looks up from the coupon section of the paper to see a familiar rear fender of a Toyota Tercel. Puzzled, he looks around as if Castiel would have come in without saying hello. He hasn't but then maybe he just pulled up. Shrugging to himself, he maneuvers the scissors to cut a sweet coupon for Pizza Bagels because those things are the _shit_.

Deans looks up between each coupon for the next few minutes, a little anxious to see Cas. He spends so much of his time thinking about Cas that he starts getting more and more impatient to see him especially when Cas is late. Having inherited his mother's worry, he often entertains wild ideas and horrible conclusions when people don't show up. ( _He blames Sammy and horror movies._ ) Dean slides the scissors open and closed a handful of times, debating what he wants to do and finds himself walking out the door before he even decided. He just wants to make sure that Castiel's trenchcoat didn't become sentient and strangle him to death in a Mutant Dirty Clothes Uprising 2013 fashion. ( _Get it? Fashion? Why does Sammy doubt his sense of humor?_ )

Perfectly logical reasoning.

At first through the glare of the afternoon sun, Dean can't even tell if Cas is even in his car when he approaches but then he hears a familiar voice through a cracked open window.

“I did not mean to-- It was an honest m-- Yes. I am done... I am listening.”

Dean really doesn't mean to eavesdrop and he really should walk away or just let Cas know he's there but he does neither. He's guilty of being too curious from Cas being too quiet about what has to be Luc.

“It will not happen again. I know I have promi-- I do not know why I do not listen. It will be different this time. I-- Hello?” There's a sigh and Dean can see Cas toss his phone in the passenger side. Without another thought, Dean gives up all pretense steps closer and taps on Cas' window.

He cocks a smirk when Castiel jump and blinks owlishly up at him before a pleased smile crosses his slightly scruffy face. “Hello Dean.” Dean internally punches his inner-girl that is hoping Luc doesn't get the same easy smiles.

“Hey Cas. Figured we'd do something a little different today. Whaddya say?”

Cas' brow furrow in momentary confusion looking between his steering wheel, Dean, and the laundry basket in the back seat. “Are we changing laundry venues?”

Dean laughs and opens the back door to fish out the basket. “Nope – just figured we'd trying something else for lunch today.” Actually Dean overslept that morning and ate the last of the bread the night prior without really thinking about it but it's nothing he's willing to admit to. When all else fails, blame Sammy. ( _That motto has gotten Dean pretty far.)_ All he gets the Head Tilt and a short nod before they set off back to the laundromat doors armed with Cas' dirty laundry.

“So, is everything alright with _Lucifer_?” Dean manages because he is seriously incapable of keeping his mouth shut and this Lucas Ifer, seriously the guy's name is  LUCIFER, sticks in his craw something awful. As he shoves a wet sop of t-shirts into the dryer, he takes a deep breath and maybe pulls on the timer dial too hard and it pops off. He frowns at it the faded plastic; you can barely see the red indicator arrow anymore on it. “I mean, Luc _ass_ ,” he corrects when Cas huffs from his sorting of button ups to a growing array of _manly_ tees that Dean has encouraged so he looks less stiff and lost in his skin. Today he's wearing a light blue t-shirt that's got some sort of cartoony planet on it that is killing him because he knows what it's from but he can't think of it and he's totally going to think of it and he will _NOT_ ask Cas what it's from.

Because that would be admitting defeat.

“Dean,” he intones evenly as he crouches down to pour the perfect amount of detergent into the machine; his meticulousness rivals Anna's. Castiel is, needless to say, not a fan of Dean's name calling but sometimes Cas will smile and then berate himself like he's not allowed to think it's funny or that maybe Luc will find out he was the ass( _butt_ ) of the joke.

Dean pops the dial back on after a moment or two of finagling to line up the grooves and hops up on the machine and waits for Cas to finish so they can go. His eyes stray slightly downward to admire the pull of fabric over Cas' skinny back. He wonders for a moment if when hunched over if Cas' spine sticks out in knobs. He can't quite tell. _Luc_ probably does though.

“So what did he want this time?”

Pausing momentarily, Cas straightens after he sets the machine and flips it on. Cas' shirt catches the broken slants of sunlight from the window blinds as he turns and the t-shirt design mocks hims silently. “I failed to notice that the milk I purchased last night was only the calcium fortified kind and not the calcium and Omega-3 fortified kind.”

“What?” Dean face contorts trying to understand. “Why is that a big deal?” Surely the taste couldn't be that different could it?

Cas's mouth pulls down into a semi grimace. “Lucas is very specific about things. When his things aren't in their places he becomes very...agitated.”

Dean is still lost. “So, wait, it's nearly the same thing. Does it taste noticeably different that he can't grin and bear for a few days? If it bothers him so much he should just go out and buy more.”

Cas shakes his head, looking down, and fiddles with his hands, a nervous habit he's been displaying with growing frequency. “There is no difference taste to me and he couldn't tell during dinner last night. I guess after I left and he woke up he noticed the carton. Or maybe my tastebuds are bad.”

Sliding off the dryer, Dean huffs and bites down hard to not yell even though he feels like he _really_ should because this is the same guy who last week threw a tantrum because _he didn't like the plastic bottle his water was in_ because it was too flimsy and ordered Cas to pour into a _different_ plastic bottle just so he would drink it. Dean had to abandon that conversation because there is absolutely no reason at all to be found in that. He still has lingering migraines when he comes back to it.

Beyond what is clearly verbal, he doesn't have solid proof that Luc is outright mistreating Cas all the time or if it's just timing and he hates that he checks all the time for any skin that Cas shows to make sure it hasn't transcended to physical.

Before Cas, Dean would never have honestly expected the people they show on daytime talk shows to actually exist. That maybe, _maybe_ , some of the women at the bar were exaggerating. He just doesn't understand why they stay and deal with it.

He stalks off towards the door with a “C'mon,” and doesn't check to see if Cas is following.

 -+-+-+-+-+-+-

Ok, so, _yeah_.

FroYo is probably the _least_ economic place to go to but Dean's been skimping and Cas is having a bad day and watching him make an absolutely disgusting monstrosity of every flavor of frozen yogurt and toppings ever is actually entertaining in and of itself so he reasons it's more like lunch and a show. Dean's more modest but no less delicious Mountain of Gooey Awesome comes in at $7.45 while Cas' nearly requires a second cup to keep the Tower of Toppings from leaning like Pisa into the hot fudge station and ranks a $11.21. Dean thinks they should really have a wall dedicated to the heavy weight champions of frozen yogurt concocting because it really is something.

  
Maybe not _$20_ worth of something, but something.

Ok, so Cas' isn't disgusting _per se_ he concludes as they split small talk and equally small spoonfuls of one another's yogurts ( _which probably looks sickeningly domestic._ ) One of the concessions of being friends with Castiel is forfeiting both your personal space as well as your _food_ 's personal space in that if it was within reach of him, it was fair game for Cas. For as lean as the other man was, Cas could just wolf down food without it going anywhere.

Dean lets himself wonder if this is kind of what it would be like to be _with_ Cas, which invariably brings to mind _Lucas_ , which ultimately breaks the small warm glow he'd been experiencing. Melted yogurt and thick fudge sit heavy at the bottom of his cup as he drags his spoon through it. He chews over his words and this really persistent caramel candy Cas ninja'd into his cup before.

“Hey Cas, have you ever heard of the Frog in Water?” He watches and fails at fighting a smile as Cas winces through a brain freeze. “Pace yourself, Young Padawan. That's the fourth one you've given to yourself.”

When Castiel surfaces from behind his hands, he flicks a Nerd candy at Dean, which _somehow_ nails him right between the eyes. “No. What is it? Some kind of show?”

“Lucky shot, bitch. And no, it's kind of like... an anecdote. The theory is if you take a frog and put it in a pot of hot water it will immediately jump out but if you put it in a pot a cool water and slowly raise the temperature it won't notice the subtle change in temperature and won't get out the water and will eventually get boiled alive.”

The horrified look that crosses Castiel's face is kind of hilarious. “Do people do this?”

“Well, no. Not _literally_ , unless they're messed up I guess. But the point you're supposed to take away from it is that sometimes you don't realize the situation you've gotten yourself into for what it is because it happened so gradually like the frog that started in the cool water,” Dean pauses and speaks with what he hopes is clear intent, “And that if you immediately jumped into it like a frog straight into boiling water you'd know to get out.” And Dean wants to follow it with, "Like Lucas. He seemed like a good idea at first I'm sure but can't you see what he's doing to you?" But he doesn't. 

A silence stretches between them and Dean doesn't know exactly when this thing with Cas became something trivial to something bested only by Sammy. In fact, a large part of him wants to get up, leave, get out of this mess, and go back to his life before this. Before some completely, unintentionally, kinda ( _dare he say it?_ ) adorable, and ungodly awkward be-trenchcoated guy walked into his life with a crinkled five dollar bill and off-blanced him.

Cas seems to be working towards a response if there in fact was something there to respond to when Dean's _Hey Your Shit Is Clean_ alarm goes off. Cas seems to jump at the opportunity to completely change subjects, “We should go back to the laundromat now. I'm interested to see if there is any difference between Bounce and Downy. Thank you for lunch, Dean.”

Both cups, napkins, and cheap plastic utensils are swept up before Dean can say much and _seriously_ what is that shirt from? He's wondering if he's overstepping his bounds. He thinks of Sammy who guiltily plagues his thoughts a little less than he used to which makes him feel like he's betraying something. Sammy is good at these things, at explaining things to people, getting them to see things from different perspectives. But Dean isn't Sam and Sam doesn't even know that Castiel _exists_ save for suspicions that he thinks Dean may have met someone.

Which Dean vehemently denies by the way. He is _not_ a pining teenage girl.

But for now, he guesses he concedes to the evidence.

“Hey Cas,” he calls, catching up to him at the door. “What's your shirt from?”

“The Rugrats.”

“OH MY GOD. HOW DID I NOT THINK OF THAT?!”


	7. Line Dry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Lucifer. No really -- I'm basing Lucas Ifer off of someone I know. That water bottle story from the last chapter legitimately happened. 
> 
> Please -- if you or someone you know are in an abusive relationship (verbal abuse is still *abuse*), DO NOT settle because you think it's the best you can do, or that no one else will want you, or because you think you're too old/poor/etc to make it on your own. 
> 
> Serious moment over -- I hope you enjoy this chapter! :D Although really this and Chapter 6 should have been just one big chapter.

“So who is she?” And of course Sammy had some sort of half day for testing today that Dean had forgotten until that moment. Six foot freakin' _four_ of smug contentment greets him over the railing of their walk up. He lets Sammy revel in what he _thinks_ is his 'cool' moment and absorbs the cocky smirk and the attempt at a suave pull of his Coke.

Adjusting the heavy bag of freshly laundered clothes over his shoulder, Dean face splints into a predatory smile and waits until Sam's got a good mouthful to call out “You got me, dude. It's Becky.” Sam's choked Coke-filled splutter is all the punctuation needed for that statement.

Dean : 1  
Sammy : 0

Fuck you, Cas. He's still got it.

“Don't _even_ ,” a cough, “kid about that man.” Sam tries to pound the soda out of his lungs and follows Dean inside of their apartment. It's actually a really decent place and with the deal Bobby got them on the rent it's that much better. Sure there's no elevator but steps are a small price to pay for a decent place to sleep. Out of habit, Sam trades his Coke for the bag and starts roughly separating the clothing within.

Oh God, store brand soda will _never_ be name brand.

“You know she still has those boxers she took from you the last time.” Which is a true story. Sammy comes with him to the laundromat sometimes during the summer and the last time he showed Becky, who is all starry-eyed around the Moose, was there and successfully relieved Sammy's pile of its Super Mario boxers. Dirty nonetheless. “Apparently your possible DNA being on those nerdy drawers is what keeps her from washing them to this day. Maybe she's trying to clone you or building a shrine to you.”

A pair of jeans greet his face enthusiastically while thankfully missing his soda.

“Jesus, what is it with people throwing shit at my face today?” He whips Sam lightly with them and falls into a lump on the couch and turns on the tv. On screen, there's a cartoon of a cackling old woman holding an apple. “Well that's not creepy.”

“I think it's Snow White,” Sam offers, carefully folding t-shirts. Dean used to make fun of him but he ran out of new material (GET IT? MATERIAL?) years ago and after Anna it doesn't seem quite right.

“Snow White? Ah, I've seen this movie. The porn version anyway,” Dean shrugged and flipped through the channels while decidedly ignoring the commentary from the peanut gallery about Dean's lack of culture and general hedonism. What can he say? At least the Evil Queen was hot in the porno version.

At last. They may only have basic cable but they have the only thing that matters...

“Oh no, not...,” Sam murmurs while Dean whoops.

“DOCTOR SEXY MARATHON! _HELL YEAH_!”

 

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

 

Somewhere between Dr. Sexy's earth-shattering diagnosis in the second episode, the epic love triangle revelation between the good doctor and the equally smoking nurses Valerie and Stacy in the third, and Dean's second beer, Sam falls asleep propped up by a pile of folded up tees and jeans. It's lucky for Dean that Sammy felt moved to such domesticity because if it were all up to Dean it would just be in a big pile to be picked at. Hell, Sammy even uses a coaster on their living room table even though the thing is warped and kept moderately level by Kerouac and Palahniuk. Although it's been years since he last tried to convince Dean to do the same, he will usually put a coaster under his beer for him without a word or a look. And in those moments, sure, he could be a dick and pointedly not put his beer back on the coaster but he doesn't. Watching the Moose sleep is how Dean mostly gets to see him now a days, apparently in the last few weeks he's decided to grow in some mega-tton chops and he's probably going to have to sit him down for an intervention with an electric razor. Staring down at his half empty (Sam would say, “Half full, Dean. You're such a pessimist.”) becoastered beer and watching the sweating droplets race one another down the glass, he wonders how much longer this can last. Maybe this is the feeling that moms get whenever their kids outgrow something and they know that each time it's one step closer to them leaving the nest even when your baby bird is really Big Bird with facial hair problems.

Realistically speaking, if Sam doesn't get any scholarship or Dean can't come up with the money in time, then Dean wins another year or two of keeping Sam around- which would suck. At least it should. If Sam _does_ get in then Dean gets to help Sam move into a far off dorm room- which would be awesome. At least it should. Rocking forward, he grabs the neck of his beer and for a solid three seconds Dean honestly considers Hulking out and screaming and smashing, but in the end he sits back, takes a swig, and knocks the table hard enough propping his feet up that the bum table leg slides off Kerouac and hits the floor.

“Wuh--!” Sam jumps and in a flurry of arm movement and blinking he manages to knock over the neat pile beside him _and_ save it at the same time. Dean chokes on a snort and coughs when the burn of beer crawls in his nose. Sam blinks hard a few times. “Why'd you let me fall asleep?”

“Because I'm an awesome brother. What did you dream about?” Dean figures Sam is a little disappointed because they rarely have time during _normal_ hours to hang out let alone a couple in a row when both are awake. But Sam is like a cute cat hogging your favorite pillow, you just _don't_ wake them up to get your pillow back.

Moose yawns back a, “Lollipops and candy canes.”

Smirking, Dean shakes his head and tips his bottle towards his brother with a flourish. “Dude, you were making some serious _happy_ noises. Who were you dreaming about? Angelina Jolie?” Indignation rises on Sammy's face like the sun, but he controls it and narrows his eyes.

“No...”

Dean weighs this for a moment. “Brad Pitt?”

“No. No!” And for the second time that day Dean gets a pair of jeans to the face.

“Methinks the Moose doth protest too much,” Dean tries to get out although most of it is lost as it dissolves into laughter. The gist of it must be hear because Sam sighs and drags a big hand over his face.

“ _Dude_. Shut. Up.”

 

' _At least it should.'  
_ But it isn't.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-

Castiel eyes himself in the mirror in the bathroom. The walls, the counters, the floor, and the lights are all bright white and glistening perfection. Much of Lucas' house follows the same rule. Nothing out of place. Everything is just the right size and in just the right shape.

The bright fluorescents wash out his skin, his pallor almost discernible from the white v-neck tee he's wearing. Instead of looking out of place as the only spot of color, he looks like he was being swallowed up. He tilts his head to the right and his eyes narrow in concentration.

Assimilated.

“Cassie?” Lucas calls as his Italian leather loafers clack around the hard floor of the sitting room in the distance. The sound muffles to dull  _thumps_  when he crosses carpet and appears seconds later in the door way to stand behind Castiel.

“What a peculiar thing you are, just standing here.” He looks amused, lifting a piece of Castiel's lengthening hair, but Castiel can see an edge of irritation in his eyes. Lucas' eyes follow his fingertips that gently continue to pick up the ends of his hair. “I thought this was getting cut.”

Diplomatic.

“I was busy today. I will do it tomorrow,” Castiel responds evenly, meeting Lucas' eyes in the mirror when the other man looks back up. There's a quick and small tug on his hair.

Then a longer more forceful one.

“Yes. What is it that you do on Wednesday afternoons that keep you so preoccupied?”

“Laundry.”

“Is that all?” There's a look there, a look that kind of compels Castiel akin to the that of a snake charmer winning over a serpent. Castiel blinks and his gaze falters only slightly but it's enough and there's another nearly-harsh tug to  _prompt_  him.

“Castiel, I don't know why you're fighting  _me_ , of all people. I simply want to know about your life, is it  _so_ terribly bad of me?” Those fingers are now stroking the side of his head, coming low enough to brush down the edge of his jaw and coming to a rest at the juncture of his neck.

“I have a friend.” Castiel feels almost as if he couldn't  _not_  say it.

“I see,” Lucas murmurs, eyes narrowing as both hands come to his shoulders, forefingers dragging along collar bones, upsetting the fabric and revealing the edge of a blossoming bruise that Lucifer put there with his teeth only an hour ago. “I confess myself,” he pauses, holding eye contract pointedly, “ _Disappointed_. I wish you wouldn't do such things, Castiel.” The hands squeeze briefly before smoothing out over his shoulders and down to his waist.

“Now it's time for you to go. I have company over tonight.” Lucas kisses the side of his head and hold Castiel's eye with an intense gaze for a few long tense moments before letting go and smacking him lightly on his butt. Castiel listens to the footfalls as he walks away.

 

-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-

 

The rest of the week passes by much like all the others do. The work isn't pleasant but it isn't horrible and life goes on. It's Sunday night at _Le Petit Champignon_ and the night is winding down. There's about two or three more house until he can go home and get this monkey suit freakin' off and go to sleep. What he's trying to pass off as nice dress shoes are really about a size too small and his feet are starting to die a long and loud death.

Another ritzy, shiny, run-of-the-rich-mill sedan rolls up and it's Dean's turn to get this one. Every so often, Dean will cast looks at the patrons sliding out of the different cars if there are a lot of arrivals at the same time to see if maybe Lucas is there and dragging Cas along. But it never turns out that way. He's not sure why he wants to see Cas here, it's not like he enjoyed being here the last time or that _Dean_ would enjoy seeing Lucifer again now being more invested in their relationship as well as the pending one between Luc's face and his fist if he ever got the chance and reason. Bowing at the open door, Dean is suddenly consumed by what he'd do to Luc if he did show up. Would he say something? Suggest he knew what was going on? Would he grin and bear it? And as much as maybe he wanted to say or _do_ something, what would Cas think? Dean's never even stopped to think about how he might be only one invested here. He's in pretty deep over someone in a relationship when one of his cardinal rules in life is not to mess with people who are already taken. He didn't want to become his father. The real question is does Cas even _like_ him? Does he _love_ Luc? Does he--

“He likes you.”

And dear God – it's _Chuck_.

It's the muttering, over-stimulated, twitchy  _Chuck_ who sporadically shows up on Wednesday mornings at the laundromat. Well it is, except Chuck is dressed in a suit that's only slightly rumpled, his regular nest of crazy hair looks like it's a little more controlled, and his face is scruffy but fashionably maintained. He looks stylish and... _sane._

And _what_ did he say?

“He likes you, you know. You're different from John, but not in all the ways that count. He _burned_ up,” Chuck says and Dean is so floored right now. What is Chuck even-- How in the hell? Is he talking about _John_ John? Like John _Winchester?_ Abandoning all pretenses of work decorum, Dean swallows thickly taking a half step back, just staring. Did Chuck just play at being crazy? Is this some sort of prank?

“How-- What are-- you even,” he sputters and then Chuck's whole face and shoulder twitch and he blinks spastically in what Dean had, before that moment, considered perfectly normal for him.

“Don't burn up. Fuck. Shit. Don't service Oberon, King of the Faeries,” Chuck whispers conspiratorially, the familiar crazed look on his face. “The Angels are watching over you, Dean.” Then someone is calling for _Charles_ and Dean is left standing in a dumbfounded state watching _Chuck_ walk into _Le Petit Champingnon._ What had just even _happened?_ Distantly, he can hear some of the other valets speak in excited tones.

_“Do you know who that was?!”_

_“No?”_

_“It was Charles Shurley! You know the author of the Supernatural series?”_

_“No fucking way. Damn, I should have gotten a signature.”_

_“Yeah, my girlfriend thinks he's God.”_

 

    

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was terribly short and I apologize. I get to these points regardless of how long it is it feels appropriate to stop -- usually because my eyes feel like they are going to bleed and I need sleep but also because it genuinely seems like a good place to end a chapter. 
> 
> BUT if they are short I will try to update again within a day or two to make it suck a little less!


	8. Made In China

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. So my New Year's Resolution is to be a better woman of my word. I have good intentions I swear -- my follow through is just so so poor.  
> I'M SORRY AND PLEASE DON'T GIVE UP ON ME ;_; I'M GOING TO FINISH THIS.
> 
> (I'm simultaneously getting an etsy shop ready to open and a webcomic to start.  
> So. I'm totally biting off more than I can chew as per always. So. YEAH.)
> 
> I wanted this to be longer but I wanted to put *something* up.

Dean goes home that night late after waiting around a little longer hoping that Chuck would both reemerge and never come out. Because honestly? What the _fuck_ had happened?  
  
 _Angels are watching over you._

Mom used to tell that to him at night before he went to bed as her finger nails scratched lightly across his scalp when he was a kid. He remembers being gullible enough then to believe it and asking when Sammy came along if the angels were going to watch him too. He remembers asking his mom if she thought the angels would mind if he could help look after Sam too since it was his job as the older brother.

Dean coughs and snorts derisively; it was a good thing it was his plan from the start because it certainly was foisted upon him. There were no angels then and there are no angels now and not even whatever the hell had just happened with Chuck will change his mind and yet... And yet, part of Dean wants to find him and beat the answers out of him. Was is some weird psychic who-do or is it just the luck of the draw? Sammy always uses that bit about monkeys with typewriters writing frickin' _Shakespeare_ given enough time. It's not like it was _totally_ personal. Everyone knows or is related to a John.

He stays up until the wee hours chewing off the skin around his left thumb nail in the dark staring at the glare from the moon on the television glass.

 _Don't burn up_.

-+-+-+-+-

Dean blearily comes to when his cell phone chimes, vibrates, shimmies to the edge of the coffee table, and dives to floor with a death wish and a clatter. Of course he didn't manage to crawl his way to his bed last night and slept, judging by the amount of light, for about four hours with his neck at a perpendicular angle. (See Sammy? He knows big words.) With a long series of _POPs,_ Dean fishes the phone from below him; the specific chime means it was from Cas. He swallows dryly repeatedly and rubs the grit from his eyes.

**Judi's docks tfccs**

Well. That was informative.

_**Do Judi's docks upset you?** _

**I APOLOGIZE. IT APPEARS AS THOUGH I ACCIDENTALLY SENT A MESSAGE FROM MY POCKET.**

_**Front or back pocket?** _

**BACK POCKET. IS THIS SIGNIFICANT?**

_**Your ass wanted to talk to me.** _

**MY POSTERIOR SPEAKS TO NO ONE.**

**AS IT IS NOT CAPABLE OF SPEECH OR THOUGHT.**

_**Your a troll.** _

**YOU'RE****

_**Relaaaax grammar nazi, I just woke up.** _

Dean blinks forcefully a few times trying to dispel the pressure emanating from behind his eyes and inching towards his temples and nose. Great, a cold is _just_ what he needed although the timing could theoretically be worse. At least it's Monday morning which means it's that much closer to Wednesday morning where he can sleep in and sleep this away. And Monday is his iron day at Bobby's where he'll be spending equal time with cars as he will paperwork because despite their best efforts to the contrary, at the end of each month Bobby and Dean put in at least two or three long days to sort all their records, count inventory, do some heavy lifting, and end splitting a few beers while overlooking the junkyard. All in all, Dean liked Mondays actually. Which reminds him...

_**How is your car starting?** _

Dean can be troll too.

**YOU ARE DOING THAT ON PURPOSE.**

_**Maybe.** _

**I BECOME LESS AND LESS SURE THAT IT WILL START. IT MAKES... NOISES.**

_**Told you so. Your starter is going bad. Bring it by the shop today.** _

**I CAN BE THERE BY 1:30PM.**

_**Sounds good.** _

And with that, Dean peels himself off the couch. The pressure in his head in unrelenting and strong enough to give him vertigo for a second once he's entirely vertical. His feet drag behind him on his way to shit, shower, and shave before heading to Bobby's. He plans his day as he runs the shower as hot as humanly possible: take one of everything left in the medicine cabinet, pray for a miracle, and then get as much physical labor done so he can just sit at a desk next to Bobby and grunt his way to five o'clock.

Which sounds like a pretty good friggin' plan if you ask him.

-+-+-+-+-+-+-

Ok, so it was a shitty plan.

This is mostly because Dean had been hoping that whatever sickness he had would sort of level off after that morning's raid of the medicine cabinet or that it would at least slow his descent his God Awful Land. He's been at work for four hours, just _four_. FOUR. And he still has _five_ to go. After doing three oil changes, a tire rotation, two tune ups, and brakes, his _entire_ face had been _throbbing._ Several times he had just _stopped_ and stared into the distance for a minute or two. Eventually he gave up and passed the rest of the work onto the workshop padawans Meg and Jake and retired to the back office to finally sit and try to get his swimming head to calm.

He's trying – _really_ trying – to focus on the numbers and the accounts before him, but all he can count is his pulse that he can feel everywhere. Dean should take his break but then he'd have to get up and get food and really it seems like the better idea not to move. A sneeze wracks through him and is halted by his stuffed up nose thus nearly blowing out his ear drums. With a nasal groan, Dean slouches back in his chair and covers his face for a moment.

To be fair, he's been miraculously in good enough health for long enough that he can't quite remember the last time he was this sick. Dean guesses it must just be about time to be sick. His chest is sore with the effort used to pore over the cars and the papers instead of just resting. He just needs to finish. He just needs to.

He just needs to...

To...

…

…

…

_**KNOCK. KNOCK.** _

“Hey Dean--”

Dean jerks awake, not realizing he even nodded off to begin with. He had just been rubbing his eyes and next he thing he knew was Meg. Meg.

It takes him a second to register his thoughts in the slow haze of his congestion. Meg.

Oh! Meg.

Meg is standing by the door, having stopped whatever she had been saying when she stepped in. There was a look of open concern on her face, which is kind of foreign because usually Meg is unapologetically sarcastic and ritualistically bitchy (which Dean thinks is kind of necessary in to hold your own in a body shop surrounded by greased up guys). He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath that he sort of chokes on before managing, “Sorry, I was – what do you need?” Dean blinks hard a few times and wills his face into an arrangement he hopes looks a little bit less like the Death-Warmed-Over it feels. However, there's no mirror and if anything Meg's eyebrows furrow more so he figures he's not doing such a great job of it.

“Oh-- um, there's this guy here asking for you? I think he said his name was Clarence. I tried to tell him you were busy and that any of us could handle his car but he was very--” Meg fishes around for a word and Dean aborts the huff of a laugh he wants to make because he knows he'll just start coughing instead. Castiel manages to avoid being described easily. “Odd. But kinda cute.,” Meg smirks; she's a maneater.

“Yes, he is,” Dean agrees before he can think better of his reply and tacks on, “Odd – I mean.” But Meg's right eye brow that had kicked up half an inch in _Oh Really Now?_ when he had opened his mouth remained high with suspicion. Harshly scrubbing his face down, Dean stands and holds the desk for a moment while his world spins. “I'll go deal with him – he's a friend.”

Meg's smirk evolves from merely piqued to full out lascivious. “A _friend._ Ok.” Dean can't even glare at her before she's gone the way she had come, leaving Dean wondering what it is about the women in his life just making assumptions. This train of thought is abruptly cut short when he walks out into the lobby where the sun is glaring off the entire friggin' white linoleum flooring. It immediately pierces his eyes with such force he staggers , squints, and bumps into the water fountain. His office had been considerably dimmer.

Lisa, on call with a customer, shoots him a concerned look as she rattles off prices and Dean nods her off before squinting a bit at the front doors again where his eyes have adjusted enough that he can now make out the stark relief of Castiel against the wall of light. Dean's sure if he were a painter or a poet that he could do something with this moment, but he is neither so he just walks towards the enigmatic man. Castiel, who has remained still and silent, is not as easily dismissed as Lisa apparently as the concern on his strangely scruff-free face just grows the closer they become.

Dean stares for a moment at a Cas who is a bit more put together looking – his hair even and neatly trimmed. Of course, his suit is really in the same state of dishevelment but he looks nice. Though Dean is kind of partial and used to his previous look, he supposes it wasn't all the professional looking. But to be honest, the clean line of his jaw and neck make him want to do things that even horribly sick he wouldn't be swayed from.

“You look like you've come from Hell,” Castiel murmurs, stepping forwards and narrowing his eyes at him like he could read his DNA and his life story in the freckles on his face.

“Uh,” he clears his throat. Once. Twice. Three times. It's not really helping. “Think I'm getting a cold.”

Cas frowns. “You should be resting.”

“Nah.” For some reason, Dean has always bucked hard when people try to take care of him. Sammy has tried to tell him it must be because he's a masochist, married to being a martyr, and that he's afraid to give up control or something and it's actually insulting or some shit. Dean shrugs, he is what he is: stubborn as a friggin' mule. “I got work to do. Speakin' of, make it here in once piece or do I have to have the boys come pick it up somewhere?”

Ok, so it's not the smoothest subject change and Dean knows it. He thinks that Cas should just humor his effort since he's sick but then again Castiel doesn't do most of the things Dean expects so-- “My car is in a better state than you are, Dean. You will go home.” Then after a beat, “I will escort you home.”

Dean has to turn aside to _cough_ laugh _cough. “No_ , you won't. I'll be ok.” Part of him wants to fight him about being compared to that hunk of junk he's driving, but as he back tracks to the water fountain and fishes out a paper cup to quell the incessant itching and burn in his throat he thinks it's probably an accurate assessment. The first sip of cold water is nearly orgasmic and he has a sudden urge to pour it over his head because he didn't notice until just now how warm he felt. He turns back to Cas and jumps because his head is so stuffy he didn't hear Cas' footsteps behind him when he walked back to the fountain. Dean had been getting used to the strange man's stealth walking too. Damn.

Cas casts a look over his shoulder. Dean follows it to the wall behind the counter. There is a big sign that reads BOBBY'S AUTOBODY SHOP with this month's specials underneath it and two truly archaic xerox machines pushed to the wall below that. Without so much as a word, Cas turns on his heel and approaches Lisa, who's been trying to look busy while still paying avid attention to the two men.

“Hi,” she starts with a hesitant smile, casting a look back at Dean who is trailing after him. “How can I help you?”

“I need to see Bobby, the owner of this establishment,” he intones evenly.

Lisa opens her mouth to respond but Dean reaches the counter and cuts her off with a scoff, “No, he _doesn't_. Bobby--”

“This man is very ill and needs bed rest. If Bobby isn't here, then I would like to leave a message before I take Dean home.” Castiel has an _amazing_ poker face, he will give the twit that much. He doesn't blink or flinch at all.

“Excuse me,” he turns his head to try to quietly cough, “I– **ahem** –I don't need a nanny.”

Lisa just watches the verbal volley between them with a level of amusement.

“You are clearly incapable of making a rational decision in your state.”

“My _state?_! Do I show up at your job and tell you how to do it? No!”

“No, because I do my job well and attend to myself when the need arises so your help isn't required.”

“The hell, Cas?” he gestures widely, voice rising. “Yeah, because _LUCIFER_ is obviously something you don't need help with.” Dean knows in some part of his rational thinking brain that is cowering under the increasingly fever fueled irrational part that what he said was uncalled for and also not relevant in the slightest to anything. The arguing has his world pitching to the left and he's seriously starting to wonder if your eyes could explode if you have a bad enough headache. At this point, even he is doubting he'll be able to finish his shift but it's the principle of the matter.

“Obviously.” Castiel's voice is low and his face is unchanged.

“What in the seventh circle going on out here?” Bobby calls out from the door to the garage. He doesn't take more than four steps towards them before doing a double-take at Dean. “Boy, you look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks. You look good too. HEY!” He gawks as Castiel just walks straight up to Bobby.

“Hello,” Castiel checks the nametag on Bobby's shirt to make sure, “Bobby. I am Castiel. I need to take Dean home. He is quite sick and refuses to do so.”

Pushing off the counter, Dean shakes his head. “Guy makes it sound like I'm dying--”

“Ya do sound like you're dyin', son. Thought maybe you were still waking up this morning,” Bobby says as he runs a disbelieving eye over Dean. “Idgit, the hell are you doin' stayin' here? Go home.”

Castiel doesn't say “I told you so” out loud but Dean can read it on him anyways.

“Bobby, I'm fi-,” Dean coughs, damnit. That _totally_ helped his case. “I'm fine.”

“Boy, do I _look_ like I was born yesterday? Now get outta here. Ya ain't gonna do me any good gettin' everyone else sick. And you,” Bobby turns back to Castiel, “Castiel was it? Please take the damned fool home.”

“No, don't take the damned fool home--” Dean pauses, realizing he insulted himself, “Whatever. Anyways, Cas' car barely works, it'd probably stall so I'd just be better driving myself home tonight and, and, what are you _doing_?”

Bobby is taking the spare he has for the Impala off his keyring and handing it to Castiel. “Take him home and we'll take a look at your car. Figure for the hassle he's puttin' you through. And Dean, _so help me_ , if you don't go home right now and take care of yourself I'm going to take you off the schedule for two weeks.”

Any argument Dean that was going to make falls flat at that because it's not a threat. With Bobby, it's always a promise. “ _Alright_. Alright.” Bobby clasps his shoulder, pushes him so he staggers into Castiel, and walks back out to the garage murmuring under his breath. Cas catches him with an arm around his shoulders. Suddenly, Dean is just very tired and stares at a piece of dust on the collar of Castiel's shirt.

“You are flushed.” A cool hand is pressing against his hand and Dean's eyes just about roll into his head. “You're burning up, Dean.”

And then Dean laughs. Well, he tries to.

_Don't burn up._

It seemed like once Dean submitted to the combined wills of Bobby and Castiel (damn them) it gave his body permission to just give up the ghost. He sits blearily in the passenger seat with his head pressed against cool glass. With the rare exception where Sammy is driving, Dean never sits shotgun. It's weird how everything seems so different three feet to the right. It's also very very quiet.

Dean sneezes and then has a coughing fit for several minutes. The world is too bright and so he just curls up more with his eyes shut. He can't even think – his _brain_ is congested. He just wants to sleep.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

It takes Dean a while to process the question. “'m not gonna die – n' the ho'pital nurses aren't even hot.” He spares a thought at how wrecked his voice is at the moment and wonders whether or not Cas will be able to understand him.

“Do I have to find you a hot nurse?”

Dean thinks about Dr. Sexy. God, he's tired. “D'pends. Do you have a uniform?”

-+-+-+-

“That sounds good, I'll talk to you later. Yeah-- ok, bye.” Sam hangs up his phone and allows a grin that he knows Dean would classify as “goofy” split his face as he rounds the corner to their apartment building. The grin staggers a bit when he sees the Implala in the parking lot close by the entrance and next to a blue Hyundai Accent – Dean _never_ parks close. Mrs. Norman, down the hall and the owner of the Accent, is ninety years old with coke bottle glasses and couldn't park straight if the fate of the world depended on it. She also knocks over a trash can or two at least once a month. Because of this, Dean has expressly forbidden that the Impala be parked close by the front door or near her. The other end of the lot is usually empty save for a car or two and makes his older brother feel more secure. He eyes the license plate and sure enough, it really is Dean's girl.

Dean's also never home this early on a Monday.

Sam jogs the rest of the way to the door and up the stairs.

Of course in the time it takes Sam to hurriedly walk up three flights of stairs, he has wracked his brain for a reason. Did Dean get laid off? No way. Bobby wouldn't do that and that wouldn't explain the parking job. Is he hurt? Taking the last few steps two at a time, Sam shakes his head. If Dean was conscious enough to drive – on pain of death he still wouldn't park next to Mrs. Norman. But the thought has Sam choking a bit and fishes out his keys trying to calm himself because, look, the car's in one piece so Dean must be ok and “ _Damnit,”_ he drops his keys. Release a shaky breath, he grabs them and unlocks the door.

“Dean?” he calls, not even bothering to lock up behind him as he ventures down the narrow hallway to the living room. It's entirely quiet – also suspect. He passes the kitchen and moves to pull aside the divider to Dean's space when--

The divider slides open just before he grabs it to see someone who _isn't_ Dean and immediately Sam is thinking _intruder_ and _oh HELL no_ and pulls back a fist just as the man says, “You must be 'Sammy'. Dean has spoken at length about you.”

“Who-wha—t?” Sam stutters and nearly knocks himself off balance trying to abort the punch. “Who're you? Where's De--” The stranger, despite being hilariously smaller than Sam, has the audacity to _glare_ at him as he pushes him away from Dean's room.

“ _Be quiet_ ,” he hisses, casting a concerned and searching glance over his shoulder to the room behind him. He turns back to Sam, glare powered down to fifty percent “He's sleeping.”

Sam is still grasping at straws – what in the hell is going on here? “Who _are_ you?”

“I am Castiel.” Like that explains anything as to why a strange man in suit and tie is in his home.

Sam frowns. “Why are you here?” he clarifies though he feels like he really shouldn't have to.

“I am nursing your brother back to health. I was told to take the 'damned fool' home.”

That would be Bobby. Sam splutters and inches around Castiel to look in on Dean himself. The man actually _moves_ with him like he thinks Sam is going to start shouting or try to kill his own brother or something. “So, you're a friend of Bobby's?” Sam's been to the shop often enough to know everyone there, although it's been about two weeks. Maybe Bobby hired someone new?

“No. I am a friend of Dean's.”

Dean is half on his side, half on his back with what looks like a wet wash cloth on his head, every blanket in the house on him, and a big tan jacket for some reason. Sam eyes the dresser next to it and notes a glass of water, a cup of tea (Good luck getting Dean drink that), and a new opened bottle of Nyquil and cold remedies. Dean does look like hell, even though Sam can only make out part of his face. All in all, nothing nefarious. Still...

“A friend?” Dean doesn't – it's not that Dean's antisocial. He knows people from all of his jobs but aside from the shifts he takes, Sam rarely ever hears of him hanging out with them without simultaneously earning a paycheck. Sam knows pretty much everyone between the Roadhouse and Bobby's unless, “Do you work with him at the fish market?”

Castiel's head tilts to the side and his expression is confused which has Sam shifting underneath the sudden attention. “He works at a fish market?”

“Uh,” he starts, seriously why is he looking at him like that, “Yeah, on the weekends.”

The other man blinks several time and straightens up once more. “Dean is a very busy man.”

“Look, ah, don't take this the wrong way. But how exactly do you know Dean?”

Castiel turns and walks to the living room saying nothing and Sam follows, honestly mind-boggled at the guy's peculiar behavior. He seats himself on the couch and pointedly waits until Sam sits as well. Sam feels a little insulted by the way Castiel sits ram rod straight and finds himself sitting up taller just noticing.

“Dean and I do laundry together.”

Sam waits a moment, he sort of expecting him to elaborate. “Um, really?”

Castiel's head tilts again like he doesn't understand. “Yes.”

“How, uh,” Sam fishes around for words, “How long have you been doing laundry with Dean?”

Castiel pauses, “We have been laundering for three months.”

 _Laundering._ Raising his eyebrows, Sam nods. This might be the strangest person he's ever met and he can't process that Dean hangs out with someone like this. Usually Dean regales him with the odd and interesting people he meets during the week – but he doesn't recall ever hearing about a Castiel or anyone who sounded like they might be Castiel. Which, Sam supposes, isn't inherently strange. He barely gets to do more than eat and watch a few hours of tv with Dean a week with the way their schedules work out so it could be that it just never came up. But Castiel's being here, having taken Dean home? He's obviously more than just some random quirky stranger that Dean bumps into occasionally. It hurts sort of thinking about it. Dean works so much and Sam is usually so busy that it seems like they don't know much about one another anymore. And with most of their conversations simmering down to money and not having enough and Sam wanting Dean to just _stop,_ they really only talk about superficial things.

He has noticed a subtle shift in Dean recently; the elder Winchester seems happier lately. Sam hasn't wanted to pry too much, hoping that maybe he met a girl or finally got laid or something. He remembers asking _Who is she?_ Because Dean had looked like he was in such a good mood one day a week or so ago and he upgraded their phone plans to unlimited texting (which he tried explaining away as something for Sam).

On _laundering_ day.

Sam gives Castiel an evaluating look and smiles. Dean has a friend. And while the strain between them is difficult, he's happy that Dean might just have someone that he can turn to. Sam can't shake feeling guilty every time he sees his friends and leaves Dean to veg on the couch. Standing up, thinking for a moment, and then rocking on his heels, Sam tosses a thumb over his shoulder. “You want a beer or coke? I borrowed the original Star Wars movies from a friend if you wanted to stick around.”

“Dean calls me a heathen as I have not seen Star Wars and cites it as one of the many reasons why we cannot have pleasant things.”

Sam blinks several times in rapid succession because _how?_

“Don't worry, Padawan. We'll turn you into a Master.” 

"Is 'Moose' also a Star Wars reference? Dea--"

"NO."


	9. Clean Up Aisle One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA HI. REMEMBER ME? THE LYING LIAR WHO LIES ABOUT UPDATING? SUP?
> 
> So this is an incredibly tiny update because I hate everything I've been writing lately. I must have deleted close to 15k by now.  
> I know how this ends it's just -- getting there really that's being the biggest pain because it just doesn't seem like it's really any good.  
> Then I read other fic and I just get more discouraged and IT'S AN ENDLESS CYCLE.
> 
> But I want to finish this.
> 
> So thank you usigh for getting me up after all my stumbles. I'm really sorry it's only 2.6k, please forgive me!

 

Two hours and two beers later, the credits for _A New Hope_ are rolling up the screen. Castiel, who is satisfied that he is that much less of a heathen, finds that wishes he had watched it with Dean instead. Before he can think of more on it, Sam is standing to collect the empty cans of coke and beer between them

 

“So what did you think?” Sam asks, draining the last of one and crushing it in his large palm.

 

“Your brother on occasion has called you Chewbacca,” Sam makes a sound not wholly unlike a Wookie-esque grunt, “I think he considers himself Han Solo.” Castiel can easily imagine Dean trying to smoothly deliver Han Solo's lines.

 

“Depending on the movie in question, Dean also likes to think he's Darth Vader,” he trails quietly on his way to the kitchen, pausing to look in on Dean. Sam doesn't think the elder Winchester has so much as twitched a pinky he's been out so deep. And that coat...

 

“Is that coat on him yours?” Sam reclaims his seat on the couch, watching Castiel as he examines the other Star Wars cases. There's a lot that seems odd about the man and maybe it's foolish to have already classified him as harmless, nonetheless it's obvious he cares about Dean.

 

Placing _Return of the Jedi_ back down, Castiel hums. “Yes. He was complaining that he was too cold.”

 

Sam sighs and sinks heavy into the worn cushions of the couch. Dean working himself sick is such a – _Dean_ thing to do. “It couldn't have been easy getting him home. I'm honestly shocked he let you drive. He's barely let _me_ drive the Impala.”

 

“Bobby threatened to give him two weeks off.” Sam splutters on what tries to be half a sigh and half a huff a laughter – he settles for rubbing his face this side of harsh. “You mentioned before that he works for a fish market? Did he quit being a valet?”

 

“No,” Sam murmurs. “Dean is-- It's for me. I-- he works at The Roadhouse too. You know, that bar and grill off Main Street?” Castiel nods. “I'm almost positive he does other things he doesn't tell me about. Other jobs. Because he wants me to go to Stanford.” Sam stares at the wall that separates the living room from Dean's room. “Like he thinks it won't matter if he works himself to an early grave just as long as he can send me there.”

 

“He cares for people.” It's true. Dean is often selfless and giving Castiel has found: food, advice, parts for his car, sewing, support. Staring down at his empty hands, he feels like he doesn't do enough to reciprocate; he didn't even know Dean worked anywhere else or what he was going through.

 

“Yeah, I know. But he just doesn't see that not caring for himself is like shitting on other people.” Sam rubs at his temples. “It's like – I really don't even want to go to Stanford at this point. Not if it means putting Dean through this. When our Dad died years ago, Dean really stepped up. I was too young to really know all of what he was doing. I feel like since that day, Dean's just been working himself into the ground and god, I'm tired just _looking_ at him.” Sam breathes deeply and berates himself for complaining to someone who is essentially still a stranger and telling him all the things Dean typically didn't share. But he's kept it in because Dean won't talk to him about it and the best that Bobby and Ellen can do anymore is give him sympathetic looks. “But I know if I don't go – Dean would just,” he trails.

 

“Dean would feel like he failed,” Castiel offers and gets a nod; Sam is _everything_ to Dean. It's not hard to imagine how badly he would take it.

 

“Yeah, well, listen, I've got a study group to go to, but if you want to chill out here if you want? I mean unless you want to call a cab because I'm guessing your car is at Bobby's, right? We can pick it up afterwards if you want and save you some money.” Cas agrees to wait and Sam starts pawing through a book-full bag that had been tucked underneath the table and picks out a cell phone and hands it over. “Maybe, if you want, you could text me and let me know if he's doing ok while I'm gone?”

 

Castiel adds Sam as “Moose Sam” because he figures when Dean comes to and breaks his fever that it will amuse him.

 

 

_Ugh, my mouth tastes like ass._

 

That is Dean's first semi-coherent thought. He feels really heavy but mostly he feels like fire. A long series of coughs rack through him barely making the mountain of blankets he's seemingly bundled in move. He can't catch his breath through the wet hacks and seriously, could his lung make up it's damn mind? In or out! His head pounds magnificently and barely notices a firm weight on his back for a few long agonizing moments until he finally stops choking on air. The pressure on his back moves in a circle, sending pleasant shivers through Dean's overheated nerves.

 

“S-” a cough, “Sammy?” he asks weakly, the ache between his temples has his face pressed resolutely into his pillow and Sam's hand on his back feels amazing--

 

“Castiel.”

 

Dean's mind, much like a diesel engine, takes a bit to catch up. He turns to look, and there sitting patiently at his bed side in the dim light of late evening is Castiel. Dean wants to laugh at because his head is tilted or maybe _Dean_ is tilted because seriously what is Castiel even doing here and sweet JESUS the throb in his head is making him wish his heart would just stop beating for a few seconds for the relief it would bring. Cas must sense his distress (like he always friggin' does) and presses a blessedly cold wash cloth to his face, dabbing at his cheeks and finally settling it over his forehead like they did in old cartoons.

 

“You are still very unwell.”

 

“N'shit, Sherlock,” he rasps through a throat that feels like its been ravaged with broken glass. “Hw'long've I bn'out?” It's coming back to him in pieces, this morning. Well, he's _hoping_ it's this morning he remembers; it feels like it happened a week ago. The last thing Dean wants is to find out he slept through a day or two.

 

“You have been sleeping for six hours. Sam is currently at a study group and will be back soon.”

 

 _Six hours._ He does _not_ need this right now. He literally cannot afford to be sick. The mind is so willing but the body is so heavy. Reaching hands underneath himself, Dean pushes himself up, the layers of blankets trapping the heat in fall away and suddenly what had been nearly suffocating heat is dreadful cold and shivers course through him making his arms like half-set jello.

 

“Lay down, Dean.”

 

No. No, he won't. Castiel isn't his friggin mother. But his muscles apparently are mutinous and are letting Cas call the shots because the hand on his back presses down slightly and it's enough for his quaking arms to give and the world swims behind his eyes a bit.

 

“Bobby called while you were out. My car is fine now. You aren't so you are not to return to work until you are better.”

 

Dean wills his head straight. “I'll be fine in the morning – s'just a cold.”

 

Skinny fingers skirt up the back of his over heated neck and nail sink in against the grain of his hair; Dean smothers a shuddering breath as the tingle of triggered nerves dance from the back of his head and over his jaw. Even deliriously sick, Dean's weak spot is nails on his scalp. _Damnit, Cas._

 

It hits Dean then that Castiel must have stayed here with him since he so _kindly_ escorted him home over six hours ago. “Why're you still here?” Of course, after that leaves his mouth it occurs to him how ungrateful and rude it might sound but everything is stuffy and uncomfortable and the world can bite him. Dean is willing to admit, albeit privately, he's a horrible sick person.

 

Castiel apparently either recognizes that Dean is a dick when sick or is just Cas and failing to understand innuendo and tone and answers as if Dean asked politely. “Sam invited me to stay while he was gone – he's worried about you. I've been keeping him apprised of your condition.”

 

“ _'My condition'_?” Dean rolls onto his back, the congestion and nasal quality of his voice leaves him foreign to his own ears. “Jesus, I'm just a little sick. I'm not dying. The hell is he worried about?” This is exactly why he likes dying quietly in corners when he's under the weather. _Nurse Samantha_ doesn't even trust him to wipe his own ass.

 

“I think he worries regardless – I do.”

 

Dean throws the oovers back, well as much as he can with Castiel still sitting on them. “I don't need to be babied, not by Sam and definitely not by you. I'm a grown man and,” he clears his throat and Cas looks down into his lap, “Who the hell just sits here and watches a sick person for _six hours?_ Does Lucas know where you are?” It's vicious – he knows it. But the words he's spitting out are distracting him from the three ring circus performing between his temples. “He doesn't does he? Because I bet if he did your phone would be blowing up and he'd be tearing you a new asshole, right Cas? Right? _Spare me_.”

 

And he regrets it. Immediately. Castiel doesn't say anything as he stands and steps from the room and Dean coughs through a sigh and collapses back against the bed. He deserves ever second of this. He grips the blankets only half-tossed away and frowns when he realizes that the top sheet isn't a sheet at all and is instead the infernal trenchcoat Cas is always wearing. The fucker covered Dean's dumbass with his coat, on top of what looks like every single sheet in the joint plus an extra large bath towel. He wants to tear it off and throw it to the floor and he takes a big handful of it to do so but stops. Instead he brushes the pads of his fingertips against the folded collar and pulls it close to his face. He tries to inhale, to see what it smells like, but he forgets how clogged up his face is and ends up curling back into his pillow with halting coughs and that sound like war drums in his abused ears. Pulling the coat over his shoulder he drops back off into sleep with a litany of curses and apologies in his head.

 

–

 

“Dean.” A pause. “ _Dean.”_

 

“...Cas?” Dean rasps as he turns towards the voice, rubbing the grit out of his eyes.

 

A soft laugh, but distinctly – “Nah, It's Sam. How are you feeling?” The lo and behold, it is the Moose.

 

“Where's Cas? Did he leave?” he finishes with a big sneeze. A fresh box of kleenex Dean doesn't remember being in the apartment is dropped on his chest.

 

“Yeah – he left about five minutes ago; got a cab back to Bobby's. He didn't want to wake you but he made you soup – thought you should eat something.” Sam nods to the bedside table, covered in more things Dean doesn't remember being in the house with one of them being a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup; the non-condensed kind. (Which, he's sure, would smell absolutely _fan-_ friggin- _tastic_ right now if his nose was even remotely functional.) His stomach, where it was quiet before, is suddenly aware of the existence of food and roars to life.

 

Dean swallows around the guilt that sits in his throat like a fish bone, pulling his body closer to the bowl as Sammy pulls the table with a scrape as close as he can. He makes himself wait nearly eight spoonfuls before finally asking,“Did he say anything?”

 

“Cas? No. He was on the phone when I got here, seemed important,” Sam shrugs, “He'll be back though.”

 

“ _Huh hayhs hoo hay hat?”_ Dean nearly chokes around his spoon and a large cube of chicken and swallows it down rather painfully. He wonders idly and nearly hoping that Cas made _special_ soup laced with laxatives or arsenic to get back at Dean for the Lucas comments. Dean doesn't know what to do with people who aren't assholes especially when he might deserve the return treatment. But Sam said Cas didn't say anything so how could Sam know? Castiel had just gotten up quieltly and – and – and made him _soup._ So how could he possibly know?

 

“Because he left his jacket here,” Sam laughs and wags the sleeve near the side of his bed in Dean's direction. “Although the way you were drooling on it, he might want to get it dry cleaned fir-- hey!”

 

“If you can dodge a spoon, you can dodge a ball.” Dean murmurs as he sets his nearly empty bowl down.

 

Sam picks up the spoon and flicks a noodle off his shoulder where it got stuck when Dean threw it. He stands over Dean with a half-hearted glare before picking up the bowl too. “You're lucky you're sick or else I'd kick your ass.”

 

“I could still take you even like this, man. I'm amazing,” he rasps; it's Bale-worthy. He grins suddenly. “I'm _Batman._ ”

 

Sam shakes his head and drawls sarcastically, “Yeah, you're Batman.”

 

“WHERE'S THE TRI--” Dean's impression is cut off by a messy sneeze that is embarrassingly high pitched. Collapsing back on the bed with a groan, he hugs the tissue box close, ripping out a handful and rubbing frustratedly at his face.

 

“Hey Mr. Bigsnot,” Sam occasionally thinks his puns are clever (they aren't.) “Why don't you take some Sudafed and get some rest and I'll handle Gotham for awhile?” Dean doesn't move but groans an affirmative while Sammy walks away. It's only when he can hear the water running that Dean leans up on one elbow and reaches over for the medicine box he identifies as definitely brand-new and most likely from the Nurse Cas Foundation. It takes him a few moments to pry the the pills out before throwing them back with a mouthful of the now stale room temperature water Cas had on the table before.

 

Reaching out, he thumbs the collar of trenchcoat again. The material is smooth and worn under his fingers and he tries to imagine Castiel out and about in the world without it. Surely he must have known he wasn't wearing it when he left? It would have been easy to take back. He considers it for a moment before figuring Sam will mock him regardless and falls back against the pillow, pulling the blankets back over himself and Cas' coat closer over his shoulder.

 

He falls asleep trying to imagine the smell of Cas' aftershave and laundry detergent.

 

 


End file.
